Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

0.

--. --- .. -. --. / . .- ... - / -.-. .- ..- - .. --- -. / ...- .. --- .-.. . -

.- -..- .

My brother and I get along. 

When I was five, he stabbed a fork into my hand. I still have the scar; now, it’s covered by an inked black rose. Love blooms in the oddest of places.

Night runs like an inkblot across the outskirts of Milan, commercial paradise. Concrete and steel twist against each other, a grisly kind of beauty that’s only so in the eyes of the beholder – even after so many years, he seeks to see it, in the lines of the alloy-plated brick chimneys, the ingots of steel, through the oblique morbidity of it all.

And rain falls.

It falls and falls, catches in brittle drops on the tin roof, spits at the window, rushes through the drain pipes with horrible sound. Turns silt to sludge, runs grime in blackened rivulets down the ferroconcrete side of the outbuilding.

Barren on the inside and out, it can barely be called home – stripped plywood floors and cracked windows and a big, blue spill of paint across the scrappy linoleum, it’s rigid and cold and sharp around the edges, grotesque as a night terror.

It should be miserable, yet it isn’t. He’s never known anything else; you can’t exactly miss something you’ve never had, and he knows better than to want.

Now, he sits and watches and listens as they send it all to ruin. They argue and heave and slam their fists against the dark oak table, pace the room with thuds of boots that make him feel little again. Deconstruct it piece-by-piece, like the coloured wooden blocks he’d played with as a child.

They’d been his only toys, they’d been many things: walls, the cobbled streets of Rome – then, as he grew older, more perceptive, houses of his very own, with thick walls and a picket fence where his mother would be safe, at least in his imagination if not outside it. 

He realizes with a startling unease that he misses her. 

And, suddenly, he wants again. Wants to stand up and scream, until they stop biting at each other and shut up for good, until he’s hoarse with it and finally, finally knows peace.

The rain lets up.

THE FOLLOWING TEXT IS A TRANSCRIPT OF CONFIDENTIAL VALUE.

SHARING ANY PART OF THIS RECORDING WITH A THIRD PARTY IS A VIOLATION, STRICTLY FORBIDDEN, AND FINED.

PROCEED WITH CAUTION!

Recorded on MEMOREX© dB 90

normal bias/pos EQ 120 𝜇s

9. 12. ---- 22:34:37

[...]

OG: The devil is in the details. We’ve received information that Turin is looking to globalize our… problem.

ST: You mean our war? I can not [indistinct]

DC: It isn’t one officially, no.

ST: Then what is it? We’ve had our Dunkirk, had our-

DC: It is an internalized issue that we are working to manage and keep under our control. 

 

SILENCE [4 secs]

 

ST: Do you have any idea how [expletive] stupid you sound?

OG: Please [unidentified noise]

DC: Well, listen. We must keep the country in our hands. It’s for the better – you know how things are with us, with them. Letting them gain power would be like shooting yourself in the leg.

RL: But they’ll be stronger if they manage to rope others into this, no?

ST: Of [expletive] course they will be.

OG: Which brings me to my next point. We must take counter-action in advance. Find allies, strengthen our ties. We need any and all available forces.

DC: Problem is [indistinct]

OG: Costil has offered his aid.

ST: And?

DC: Problem is, only him. The rest, we need to… convince.

ST: Alright. Germans, the French, no?

OG: Not exactly. Madrid. Start close, then expand.

DC: Turin has already propositioned Barcelona.

ST: Then we can’t stop at Madrid.

OG: For the time being, we will.

ST: Bravery, Giroud! Bravery! We must do all or do nothing at all.

 

SILENCE [2 secs]

 

DC: Tomorrow, we go. Us, Malpensa, 10 PM. You, today, Molo Darsena Toscana.

ST: [expletive] insane, you lot.

OG: Listen, Tonali. If you don’t respect the values inside Milan, I’ll have you know that the world is wider outside of it.

ST: Goodnight.

 

END OF RECORDING.

Chapter Text

I.

0400. Somewhere between the Tyrrhenian and Balearic seas.

The starboard light of il Diavolo blinks green against the night; the near-rhythmic tut-tut-tut of the engine lulls the scene into some morbid, industrial idyll.

The waves have calmed a bit, the bestial roiling of the sea tamed into capitulation, reduced to a pacific ebb and flow by the damping wind. Saltwater clings to the railings, eating away at the yellow paint. 

There’s a storm brewing over the horizon.

“It’s absolutely Baltic out here,” Sandro says. He tugs at his coat, pale, spidery fingers stretching the black fabric until it’s gauzy, enough to bare the starch-white shirt beneath. He shakes his hair away from his eyes. “You okay?”

Theo groans, the sound lost in the whipping of the wind. “Sixty-four dollar question. What do you think?”

“You don’t look very dishy,” Sandro considers. He comes closer, boots echoing heavily on the metal floor-plates.

Hands on hips, his eyes rake over the two men huddled in the corner – Rafael, asleep, collar upturned, head thrown back against the wall; Theo, eyes heavy, arms drawn tight around himself as he shivers against the black night. He looks miserable, pathetic in a way that somehow fails to awaken sympathy within him.

“Up,” Sandro motions. “Come get some air.” His voice is gruff, deepened beyond his years by copious varieties of cigarette smoke. 

(In his overcoat and frown, he reads an odd bit like a kid playing at businessman in his father’s suit and tie, the illusion only dampened by the heavy-set features of his face that point to a life beyond most.)

Theo stands on weak legs, bracing himself against the gentle swaying of the ship. 

“This is so unfair,” he sighs. He lets Sandro guide him to the railing, looks out towards the horizon, lost in the inky night.

“Life tends to have that effect,” Sandro says dryly. 

They fall silent, the genteel sloshing of waves against the hull of the ship filling the quiet. There’s a furrow between Theo’s brows that clouds his gaze; he picks at the chipping paint, the cold yellow seeping beneath his fingernails.

Click.

Click.

Click.

“I’m sorry,” says Sandro eventually. He wills some compassion into his voice, and it’s almost enough to fool him. 

Theo mutely shakes his head no. Sandro thrusts a crumpled half-packet of saltines at his chest, the sound breaking crisply through the still night air. Rafael stirs from his spot meters away.

“Fuck, no,” Theo moans. “Get those away from me.”

Sandro shrugs and ruffles the pack open. 

“You should go to sleep. We have an early start tomorrow.” He licks the salt from his fingers, one-by-one.

Theo sighs, a sad little sound, hot breath furling into fog from the cold. 

“I wish.” He drags his palms down his face, shifting from foot to foot. His eyes, Sandro notes astutely, are bloodshot and rimmed dark with fatigue. “Good luck sleeping next to a blasted shipment of sardines.”

“Been worse,” Sandro shrugs. “Remember what Giroud said about Modena?”

“That’s a tall story.” Sandro watches Theo’s jaw tense at the mention of his name, a near-invisible film of dread harboring his eyes. He lets out a breath in a great rush, rubs at the bridge of his nose.

“Honestly, Theo, I need you as sharp as you get tomorrow. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Theo blinks long and slow, face crumpling. And, as if dizzy with the sudden, half-baked compliment, he grabs onto Sandro’s arms, knuckles and fingers gripping white against his coat.

“Sandro,” he says. “Go, go.”

Sandro doesn’t – he watches Theo throw up over the railing for what’s close to the ninth time since they left port, pats his back listlessly, and lights a cigarette. The ashes fall into the darkened sea like stars.

THE FOLLOWING TEXT IS A TRANSCRIPT OF CONFIDENTIAL VALUE.

THE TRANSCRIPT IS A CONTRACTION OF AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL AND BLACK BOX RECORDINGS. 

PROPERTY OF AEROPUERTO ADOLFO SUÁREZ MADRID-BARAJAS & HONEYWELL INTERNATIONAL INC. 

TO ⠀⠀⠀FROM ⠀⠀⠀RECORDED INTELLIGENCE

 

MAD ⠀⠀AEZ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ITARROW one eight niner niner in

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀airfield ‘morning

AEZ ⠀⠀⠀MAD ⠀⠀⠀ITARROW one eight niner niner,

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀hear you loud and clear er

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀maintain two decimal three zero

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀zero ????? approach runway three

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀three Romeo

MAD⠀⠀AEZ ⠀⠀⠀⠀One eight nine nine Roger

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀maintaining two  three nil nil

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀approaching three three Romeo

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀thank you

MAD⠀⠀AEZ ⠀⠀⠀⠀One eight nine nine to India Mike

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ December er may I make an

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀odd request

AEZ ⠀⠀⠀MAD⠀⠀⠀ITARROW yes go ahead

MAD⠀⠀AEZ ⠀⠀⠀⠀One eight nine nine may request

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀lading at three six Lima instead of

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀three three er Romeo

AEZ ⠀⠀⠀MAD⠀⠀⠀ITARROW er explain reason please 

MAD⠀⠀AEZ ⠀⠀⠀⠀?????

AEZ ⠀⠀⠀MAD⠀⠀⠀ITARROW identify speaker name

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀pilot and co-pilot please

MAD⠀⠀AEZ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ITARROW speaking Captain

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀H Lloris co-pilot H Kane MBE

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀currently not in cockpit

AEZ ⠀⠀⠀MAD⠀⠀⠀ITARROW er right clear to land

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀three six Lima

 

Barcelona, Spain.

The motel is dingy, flickering neon tubes and scratchy, gray carpeted hallways jamming the whole place into a still misery. The beds are stiff, windows bare and cold. A large Bauhaus armchair looms in the middle of the room as king.

“Damn near the Ritz,” Theo whistles as they shove through the door, tripping over the peeling vinyl. 

They’re tense, eager, at the ready like hounds. 

It’s evident in the way they speak: nervous breaths, breathy laughs, watery smiles. The way Theo’s eyes are narrowed; the way Rafa fiddles with his long, elegant fingers; the way Sandro’s on his fifth Marlboro since mooring, carelessly flicking ashes onto the homely yellow floor.

“Could be worse,” says Rafa. His eyes flit around, eyeing the stale room. 

 “It can always be worse.” 

“That’s probably what your mother said when you came after your brother,” Rafa quips.

Theo snorts, watches Sandro exhale, the lofty little noise amping up the tension in the room by just a notch.

Then, they don’t speak anymore.

THE FOLLOWING TEXT IS A TRANSCRIPT OF CONFIDENTIAL VALUE.

SHARING ANY PART OF THIS RECORDING WITH A THIRD PARTY IS A VIOLATION, STRICTLY FORBIDDEN, AND FINED.

PROCEED WITH CAUTION!

Recorded on MEMOREX© dB 90

normal bias/pos EQ 120 𝜇s

09. 14. ---- 0:12:15

[...]

 

T: So, it is my understanding that you have no wish to collaborate with [redacted], correct?

T: Correct. We have already establish (sic) our connections with [redacted]

T: Code?

T: Megillah, one-five-nine. 

T: Alright. I trust you.

P: Hurry up, [indistinct].

T: Alright, alright.

T: I will let them know of our deal shortly.

RDB: May I?

T: [redacted].

P: Oh, [expletive]. 

 

[...]

 

Theo awakes with a start to a noise he can’t quite place.

His heart pounds in his chest, palms clammy as he darts his gaze around the room. In the dark, the shadows take life, shifting and forming into something of a Dalí painting, surreal and sluggish like tar – in the middle of it all, the subject, is a figure, brooding and strange.

“Nightmare,” Sandro says stiffly. 

He’s panting, chest heaving from where he’s crumpled into the hard-plastic of the orange armchair. He’s still in his coat, the blackness of it haphazardly spread out about him; a thin rime of sweat shines just above his lips, mats his shaggy hair to his forehead. His eyes are reddened with sleep.

“I’m sorry.” Theo’s voice cracks with sleep, stilted and rough around the edges. “You want some water?”

“I’m okay.”

The moon is a sharp, uninviting crescent in the sky, spilling in through the grimy window, dappling raindrop stains onto Sandro’s face and hands and neck. Cars pass on the pavement below, tires hissing on the wetness of it, brake lights painting him in a red-pink glow. Throwing a shadow of his face onto the wall. Theo traces his profile with his eyes, watches the way their shadows merge into one. He sits up, sheets clinging damply to his skin in the dry AC heat, makes way to approach him. 

“No, no. Go back to sleep,” Sandro whispers. An indescribable, sudden flicker of emotion flits through his gaze.

But Theo doesn’t listen – he does what his brother always did, walks up behind Sandro, presses his hands into his shoulders, his chin into the crown of his head. Feels Sandro tremble.

“I’m sorry,” Sandro says into the dead of night. His voice is even, level, far too loud for the way Rafa is sleeping just next to them, sheets tangled about his legs, arm hanging numbly off the side of the yellowed mattress.

Theo knows they’ll forget it in the morning, yet can’t help but wonder what he’s sorry for.

THE FOLLOWING TEXT IS A TRANSCRIPT OF A LIVE-AIRED RADIO SHOW.

THE TRANSCRIPT HAS BEEN DIRECTLY TRANSLATED FROM ESPAÑOL TO ENGLISH.

CBLINGUA TRANSLATION AGENCY DOES NOT TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY MISTRANSLATIONS, INACCURACIES OR ERRORS. 

PROPERTY OF PRISA & CBLINGUA-JEREZ DE LA FRONTERA.

VOICEOVER: You’re listening to CADENA Dial 91.7 FM

CADENA jingle [6 secs]

HOST: Good morning! Dawn is here, it’s a new day of sunshine, balmy weather and music. If you’d like to hear a song, call or text [redacted to retain privacy]. Again, that’s [redacted to retain privacy]. I’m your host, Pedro López, and, with that, let’s begin this beautiful day with Aventura’s Obsesión.

MUSIC [4 mins 14 secs]

HOST: Greetings, sleepy Spain! Warmly welcoming those waking up in Madrid, Barcelona, Valencia, Málaga and everywhere in between. To start everyone’s day off sunny, here’s a song from, uhh… Phoenix to Avión, with the message “Plaça Reial, 2200. TVB.” A lovers’ rendezvous, perhaps? Although it’s not summer anymore, it seems love prevails through the seasons, huh? Well, best wishes to both, and with that, here’s Ricchi e Poveri with Sarà Perché Ti Amo, with love from Phoenix to Avión.

 

END OF PUBLICLY AVAILABLE PART OF TRANSCRIPT.

 

Chapter Text

0526. Somewhere between Madrid and Barcelona.

The radio drowns in static as Sandro flicks it off, nails tapping impatiently against the hard plastic. 

“Fucking wow.” He sucks in a breath.

Theo drops his head to the window with a dull thunk , letting the swaying of the train rock him against the cool glass. His eyes close, reopen, then close again.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” Sandro stirs at his cher espresso, raises his brows. The paper cup crumples beneath his strong fingers. 

“Fuck me, that was embarrassing.” 

An abrupt laugh escapes Sandro. “Maybe so, but it was smart.”

“So he wants us to go there, or-?”

“I have no idea,” Sandro shrugs. He takes out a pack of cigars, the real deal, a red-velvet box that proclaims HECHO EN CUBA in big, gold letters. He lights it in a fell, satisfying swoop, shaking the lighter. The fluid sloshes about inside the bright orange casing. “I mean, Rafa’s there still. But he’s busy trying to track the Blaugranas.”

“It’s kind of dangerous of Giroud to leave him alone here, is it not?” Theo says slowly.

“You’re finally catching on, aren’t you?” Sandro laughs, tone laced bitter with his coffee. “Took you long enough.”

“You could’ve told-”

“Giroud doesn’t care about us,” Sandro cuts him off. His tone is serious now. "We're just pawns in his stupid game, essentially as good as dead. It's the hard truth, Theo. It's basically a suicide mission."

Silence ensues.

“Well, not a lot we can do now,” Theo says. “Once you’re on a train, you’re on it ‘til it stops.” 

With that, he leans back, wedging his folded coat between the side of his face and the cold window, dewdrops glittering upon the glass, catching the morning sun.

And Sandro stands up, brushes off his crumpled slacks, and puts his cigar out right on the plastic folding-table and admires Theo's superb capacity to pass over what's nearly a death sentence.

“Where are you going?” 

“Bathroom.”

0526. Turin, Italy.

It’s pitch-black when he wakes up, and it’s raining outside.

His head feels funny, stuffed full of cotton, and his mouth runs dry. The world is too sharp, and a cold sweat trickles down his back. He feels nauseous. He’s still in his day clothes, stiff jeans and a rumpled orange shirt advertising his aunt's fruit market, worsened with his fitful sleep.

The floor is cold beneath his bare feet as he steps into the measly kitchen. He can almost feel the black and the white alternate beneath his soles, the tiles even and twin yet somehow different at the same time. It’s as routine as it is unsettling.

He feels around in the dark, fingers scrambling along the drywall until they run into the lightswitch and flick it on. The fluorescents flicker on with a hum; he turns them off just as quickly, plunging the kitchenette back into a dire, Stygian darkness. His heart pounds against his ribs.

“Hello?” he manages, throat tight, voice breaking to fit through it. 

Silence.

Of course. He almost laughs.

He feels around for the painkillers in the whitewashed drawer, flinches at how loud and abrupt the sound of crinkling plastic is in the dead of night, promptly gives up. The tap fills a dirty glass with a great rush, the water spilling over the side and drumming heavy against the steel sink.

He holds the glass at arm's length, watches through the dark as the limescale settles slowly at the bottom of the glass, drinks. It’s warm and gritty in his mouth; he freezes in contrast, because it isn’t supposed to be, no, he always leaves the tap on cold.

It’s enough for him to leave the house, shoelaces untied, the stupid plastic door knob leaving a sticky residue on his hands from the abnormally high and dry hallway heating.

THE FOLLOWING TEXT IS OF CONFIDENTIAL VALUE.

THE TEXT IS A TRANSCRIPT OF AN INTERPERSONAL PHONE CALL, PLACED AT 5:35:17 AM, TURIN, ITALY.

PROPERTY OF AGCOM & VODAFONE GROUP PLC. 

+39 325 *******: Fabio?

+39 320 *******: Adri. Hi.

+39 325 *******: I’m sorry I woke you up.

+39 320 *******: I, er- you didn’t. I was awake.

+39 325 *******: Ah, um. Okay. Listen, I- someone was in my house tonight, I think. I don’t know. I have a fever.

+39 320 *******: What?

+39 325 *******: I heard something, and then… Never mind. Sorry, I didn’t want to upset you.

+39 320 *******: Upset? Go back to sleep. 

+39 325 *******: No, you don’t [understand 00.24.13.] I have [**00.26.03.]

+39 320 *******: That’s the problem, then. It’s your conscience playing tricks on you. Don’t be absurd.

+39 325 *******: But…

+39 320 *******: Well, are they still there?

+39 325 *******: I don’t know. I didn’t check. You think I should go back?

+39 320 *******: Ah, Adri. Really? Don’t ask for advice from a snot-nosed kid. I don’t know.

+39 325 *******: The only people who have keys to my flat are you and Paul and… and Leo.

+39 320 *******: Well, Bonucci’s gone to Spain. I’m at Nicolò’s. Paul’s probably asleep. 

+39 325 *******: Should I call him? Call Szczęsny? 

+39 320 *******: If you have a death wish, then by all means. 

+39 325 *******: Sorry. I’m just-

+39 320 *******: Don’t say you’re scared.

+39 325 *******: I’m not!

+39 320 *******: Good.

 

LINE DISCONNECTED.

 

Theo wakes up again, sudden, as the train jerks to a stop beneath them, brakes grinding against the metal track.

The cabin is empty, and the sun’s long up, beating down on the cornfield they’d stopped over – but a glance at the pixelated, red-glowing numbers on the radio’s interface indicates that not a lot of time has passed. He rubs at his eyes, sits up straighter, does his best to ease the stiffness in his neck. His cheek is crumpled from being pressed into his ad hoc pillow.

Then, the door opens, and Sandro is there, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and Theo knows him well enough to readily think of the worst imaginable scenario.

“We’re turning back,” he says proudly before Theo can edge in a question, throws himself back down onto his gray seat and fixes the cuffs and collar of his shirt.

“What the hell did you do?”

Sandro wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and shrugs. 

THE FOLLOWING TEXT IS OF CONFIDENTIAL VALUE.

THE TEXT IS A TRANSCRIPT OF AN INTERPERSONAL PHONE CALL, PLACED AT 5:46:41 AM, TURIN, ITALY.

PROPERTY OF AGCOM & VODAFONE GROUP PLC. 

+39 301 *******: Who the [expletive] is this?

+39 301 *******: Well? I swear if this is you, Marina, I’ll send the cash tomorrow-

+39 325 *******: It’s Adrien.

+39 301 *******: Who?

+39 325 *******: Adrien. Rabiot.

+39 301 *******: What do you want? 

[unidentified noise]

+39 301 *******: What? 

+39 325 *******: I didn’t say anything yet.

+39 301 *******: Well, go on, then.

+39 325 *******: It’s about… the documents.

+39 301 *******: Which ones?

+39 325 *******: The ones I had, have, had.

+39 301 *******: How the [expletive] would I know which ones you have? I have one head, boy, and it ain’t screwed on very tight.

+39 325 *******: The… black... envelope?

+39 301 *******: Ah. About that?

+39 325 *******: I, I don’t have them anymore.

 

END OF PUBLICLY AVAILABLE PART OF TRANSCRIPT.

 

 

His hands shake uncontrollably as he hangs up the phone, nails clacking against the busted screen as he struggles to fit it through the grates of the sewer that runs amok beneath the streets of Turin. 

It makes a healthy splash as it hits the murky water, and the moment it does, he takes off running into the dawn, gravel grinding beneath his shoes. 

He runs for his mother, for his brother. And – because he’s selfish and a coward and can never do anything right – he runs for himself.

837. Barcelona, Spain.

Sandro says it’s his friend’s flat when he pulls out the keys, jingling the metal on the obnoxious purple key tag, but Theo almost doesn’t believe him. 

The flat is modern in all its cold rigidity, all tidy white marble and gilded edges trimmed neatly by dark, oaken woodwork.

There’s a table and a leather sofa, alone more comfortable than the motel bed Theo had slept on the night before, spacious and brand-new save for a few whitened scratches on the armrest and back.

The big glass table is placed full of curious, intricate vases of oriental make – blue-flaming dragons upon smooth, white marble; embossed red-and-black enamel amphoras; a pair of large, colorful urns with fantastical heroic depictions and a plate set to match. Above them on the wall, spread out like great phoenix birds, are two fans of gigantic proportion.

They don’t fit in.

Sandro’s having a beer, and it’s all too early to be having one for Theo’s taste, but he holds his tongue and doesn’t comment on it. He also doesn’t mention how tired Sandro looks, how he’d basically been nodding off on the train ride back to Barcelona, bloodshot eyes and shaky, pale hands.

“This place is insane,” he says instead, stupidly, mostly to fill the tense silence between them. “Could’ve shown us yesterday, too.”

Sandro purses his lips. “Sorry,” he says vaguely, in that way only he can, the way that sounds so hollow and empty that it holds no earnestness or meaning and is really just another word , “I myself haven’t been here in years.”

“And your friend? Surely you’ve seen him, no?”

And of course Theo latches on to that personal, by-definition-romantic aspect of it, eyes bright and filled with a sort of childlike wonder that barely fails to make him feel remorse.

“Yeah, sure I did. September, three years ago. The next month, he jumped in front of the New York subway.”

It’s like a cold shock to Theo, and he freezes, not quite knowing what to say.

“I’m sorry.” It’s a safe answer, prosaic and pedestrian and expected, but it does its job.

“It’s alright. Your being sorry doesn’t change anything.”

Theo shuffles closer, slowly brings his arms around Sandro as if taming a wild animal because he’s never been good with words, not when Lucas had broken the neighbor’s window with a ball when he was four and left before he could be punished, not when he’d robbed a gas station when he was sixteen and the police had shown up at his doorstep.

And Sandro, to his surprise, lets him, lets his head fall against his chest, allows to steady himself with his hands on Theo’s thighs.

It lasts a moment, and it’s foreign, because he never does this, except maybe for when he has his nightmares, shrouded by the kind hand of night. And even then, it’s less. Theo finds himself a bit fascinated by every bit revealed about Sandro, whether by others or himself – he hangs on to every piece like a fable, like some great story to look up to as a child. 

Dumbly, he thinks he should like to see his life as a film.

“I brought you a lemonade,” Sandro mumbles against his chest. He reaches into his coat pocket, retrieves a bottle of probably the fanciest lemonade Theo has ever seen – the glass is cold in his palm, blown and double-layered, with a big herding-dog on the logo and a blue and cream label that calls to upend before drinking. He turns it over and over in his hand, forgets about Sandro enough for him to withdraw and sit up straight again.

“Thank you,” he says, and he feels it’s really not enough because he can’t remember anyone treating him like this since his ninth birthday when his aunt’d taken him to get a hamburger, one of his very own that he hadn't had to halve with Lucas, can’t remember ever having anything better than this room-temperature lemon-sugar-water amalgam, only half-carbonated from its long time collecting dust on a shelf.

“Easy does it. The only time a man should be fast is when he’s running from the law.” Sandro’s hand is gentle on his, pushing until he lets the bottle fall from his lips.

And Theo laughs. 

Because that sentence is just so unapologetically Sandro that it hurts; because he’s happy to see just a sliver of him back, laughs so abruptly that he has to spit his mouthful back into the bottle, half of the sticky-sweet ending up on his shirtsleeve. 

Sandro shakes his head, as he always does, and maybe it’s the beer but Theo could swear there’s a sort of sad fondness in his gaze. And then, it’s him who rests his head heavy on Theo’s shoulder, black hair brushing up against his neck. It’s almost touching, releases something deep inside of Theo that bubbles over and out of him without any time to think.

“I love you, Sandro,” he whispers quietly. His voice shakes beneath the weight of the words.

Sandro doesn’t reply.

Chapter Text

He reaches into his coat pocket, retrieves a bottle of probably the fanciest lemonade Theo has ever seen – the glass is cold in his palm, blown and double-layered, with a big herding-dog on the logo and a blue and cream label that calls to upend before drinking. He turns it over and over in his hand, forgets about Sandro enough for him to withdraw and sit up straight again.

Chapter Text

0837. Turin, Italy.

The house on the edge of Turin is dark and shaded, light slivering out through the blinds in paper-thin lines. The neighborhood is quiet, still, only the chatter of crickets and the far-and-few dog to break up the thick, peaceful silence. The edge of the sky is pink.

Rain falls in a light spray, wets gravel and shines house-tops, rushes through the drainpipes on the walls and the sewers beneath the roads.

Adrien’s legs tremble with exertion as he stands on the porch, staring down at his unlaced, dirty shoes. The once-white leather is stained with grime and mud.

He knocks once, twice, wood hard beneath his knuckles.

“Adrien?” Federico’s voice is rough, his eyes bleary and heavy as he opens the door. His crumpled ‘Valvoline: instant oil change’ shirt is soggy with dishwater, half a yellow rubber glove on his right hand. With his left, he holds the door open just enough to survey Adrien.

“Fede,” Adrien gasps. He wants to say more, but he fears he might throw up.

Federico’s eyes go wide, and then Adrien’s being ushered inside, Fede's hand firm on his back. It’s warm and smells like home, like burnt sugar and dish-soap and a thick, thick layer of dust. The flooring squeaks beneath his damp shoes.

“Sit, sit. I’ll make you a tea.” Fede clears some space on the tiny kitchen tabletop, shoves aside papers and envelopes and a crossword and half a bottle of Beefeater gin.

And Adrien almost laughs at how doting he sounds. He feels his shoulders relax, his tense muscles letting go one-by-one. He tries not to think of the inevitable.

“Is Dušan home?” he asks.

He forces his voice to be steady, wrings his hands uselessly at his sides. His head pounds beneath the white kitchen light, a bare bulb with a pull-chain that flickers occasionally and sometimes won’t turn on at all.

Their business may be a risky and immoderate one, but the money always stops halfway.

“No, not yet. He was out with Paul, I think.”

Federico fiddles with the tap, fills hot water into a glass, slaps in a teabag that bleeds red into the water. Twinings Peppermint cheer, a battered beige tin from the very top shelf, from between the Nesquik and the dry rotini and beneath the Kosher salt. The minty-fresh smell coupled with the soapy water that stands elbow-deep in the sink lends the air a near clinical asepsis. It stings at Adrien’s eyes and prompts him to sneeze.

“Bless you,” Fede says. He places the cup in front of him, right on the green-checkered oilcloth, no coaster and all. “I’ll go see if there are any biscuits.”

And Adrien wants to say no, don’t bother, but the hot, half-steeped tea burns at his tongue and swallows his words. So he lets Fede busy himself, rifle through the cabinets and drawers and the small, mock pantry that’s really just a crevice in the wall outfitted with a few plank shelves and a poorly-screwed-together plywood door.

And almost feels bad for upsetting the domesticity of it all.

Before long, Federico brings out a tattered pack of Savoiardi, places it in front of him with an apologetic smile, brushes a few stray crumbs off the tablecloth with his palm.

“Sorry. I asked Dušan to do the shopping last week, but he’s always busy with this and that. You came early. I wanted to go to the Co-op today.”

“Don’t worry. And thank you,” Adrien says. “Do you have an Efferalgan?”

Fede frowns. “I’ll find you something. Why?”

“Probably just a cold.” Adrien takes the remaining two and a half biscuits in the package, pours the rest of the crystal sugar at the bottom of it into his tea.

Then, Fede’s gone, disappears into the tiny bathroom beside the stove, only shielded from the bare kitchen with a tropical-print shower curtain and those eclectic beads that one might see hanging at a psychic’s.

A clock ticks on the wall, green, plastic, with ugly, blocky numbers on its face. Adrien sighs. He counts. He clears his throat.

“Fede?”

“Hm?”

“It’s not important,” he says.

“I know I have some, though. Wait a minute.” Fede’s voice is distant and echoey and coats the kitchen.

Adrien bounces his leg beneath the table.

Then, the front door clicks open, and two figures emerge from the hall, tall and dark until they step through the kitchen’s light, boots heavy and ever-thunderous on the linoleum flooring.

One moment, he’s looking into Dušan’s eyes.

The next, he’s staring straight down the barrel of a semi-automatic Glock-19.

To: S. Tonali < [email protected] >

CC: T. Hernández < [email protected] > 

From: O. Giroud < [email protected] >

Subject:  Placa Reial

Please keep to task. Find and follow “rival company” to discover their warehouse. May interact, but do not reveal “company secrets”. Please retrieve “shipment details”.

O. Giroud

To: O. Giroud< [email protected] >

From: S. Tonali < [email protected] >

Re: Placa Reial

Really giroud? An email? Technologically advanced are we

To: S. Tonali < [email protected] >

From: O. Giroud < [email protected] >

Re: Placa Reial

Sorry, Mr Giroud is currently unable to receive mail. Please check back at a later date or clarify the urgency of your message to exhort waiting time.

Sincerely,

D. Calabria, personal assistant

Milan Cargo Shipment Co.

To: O. Giroud < [email protected] >

From: S. Tonali < [email protected] >

Re: Placa Reial

Fuck off davide

Sent from my iPhone

To: S. Tonali < [email protected] >

From: O. Giroud < [email protected] >

Re: Placa Reial

Sorry, Mr Giroud is currently unable to receive mail. Please check back at a later date or clarify the urgency of your message to exhort waiting time.

Sincerely,

D. Calabria, personal assistant

Milan Cargo Shipment Co.

2157. Placa Reial, Barcelona.

“Clear instructions are literally Giroud’s bête noir.”

They’d made a stop at the Biblioteca de Catalunya and then the Pipa Club, two mimosas and a flute of plain champagne doing a considerable and impressive job at easing Sandro’s tongue. And Theo doesn’t have it in him to contend anymore, just nods along as he curses his way through the streets of Barcelona, complains about Giroud and Davide and Alessandro and how he has to piss (Theo closes his eyes while Sandro acts upon it in a darkened alleyway) and the way his lacquer shoes hurt the backs of his heels.

He’s smartly dressed, has finally closed his shirt collar up with a neat black tie, brushed his hair and gelled it back. Rings and bracelets and a big, gold watch shine on his hands, catching the nightlights of the city. He looks almost comely.

And Barcelona is loud, peppy and active and full of life, a general din and hubbub of people drifting across the streets, winding in the crevices between the buildings and filling the potholes in the road. It’s the perfect place to get lost. Truthfully, Theo wouldn’t mind; he knows Sandro wouldn’t, either, going off of the way he squints at his phone screen and tries once more to decode Giroud’s formal crypticism.

The subpar plan is simple; listen for their destination, ask for directions to somewhere nearby. Play at being tourists. Speak in (pseudo-)French amongst each other and broken English upfront, follow them to wherever and mail Giroud a photograph.

The streetlamps cast long shadows of palm trees across the Placa Reial. 

Though Theo hadn’t imagined anything, it still looks different than he’d expected – uniform, almost, filled with milling people and children and pigeons roosting on the ledges of the arcades. Children run around, splash around in the fountain, chase each other between the benches and tables and chairs. 

He takes a moment to stop and look around. It’s truly beautiful, he thinks, makes himself a childish promise to return when this is all over and relish in it fully, links his own pinkie fingers behind his back.

And then Sandro’s taking his hands and pulling him beneath one of the arcades, eyes glittering darkly in the dim light. His eyes take a moment to adjust.

“Okay. Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Sandro says. His grip on Theo is tight, not letting him pull away, not letting him go. “You’re gonna text your brother and ask him to come here as soon as he can.”

Theo wrenches his hands away. “ What ?”

Sandro shrugs, shoves his own hands into his pockets as if suddenly embarrassed. “It’s Giroud’s business. Not mine, not yours.” 

And Theo’s frozen. His mouth works in a reply, but no words come.

“You heard me. Listen, I don’t know much more than you do.”

“Why would Giroud not tell me himself?” Theo says slowly then. “Lucas is my…”

Sandro pauses, shifts from foot to foot. “He didn’t want me to tell you. Because, you know. He wanted me to do it without your knowledge. But I thought it’d be fair for you to know.”

“Fair? Fair ?” Theo laughs incredulously. “Since when do you care about fair?”

Sandro sighs again, fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette. 

“I care about you ,” Sandro says blankly.

Theo scoffs. The situation is absurd, tears a sudden laugh from his throat. 

“What the fuck would I even say to him?”

“Whatever you like. He’s your brother, after all.” Sandro gives flame to his cigarette, pockets the lighter and takes a long drag. The smoke furls past his lips in cobwebs.

Theo’s jaw tenses deliciously. “Sandro, we haven’t spoken in years . What? Like, ‘would you mind interfering with my gang-related drug wa -’” 

“Shut the fuck up,” says Sandro, inelegantly claps a hand over Theo’s mouth. “No. That’s not what you’ll say. I’ll type out the message, then. And all you’ll have to do is press a little button and send it.”

Theo nips at his palm, teeth biting into flesh, and he pulls away, steps back from where they’d scuffled into the wall. He wipes his hand on the seat of his trousers.

“Animal,” he hisses. 

Theo shrugs evasively. “So I’m the pawn here. I see,” he says.

Sandro grimaces. “Pretty much.”

Theo narrows his eyes.

“Sandro. Please.” His tone is different now, has lost that hardness and taken up a desperate edge. It isn’t often he uses it, not by any standard – and it’s genuine, too, he’s not clever enough to use it as a ploy.

And Sandro almost feels bad. 

He hardens his gaze, drops his cigarette to the floor and steps on it with a sizzling stomp . 

“Tentatively, how would you tell him to come to Barcelona with the five-fifteen tomorrow morning?” He picks at his nails, rubs them on his slacks then inspects the minimal shine. He kicks the cigarette butt beneath a nearby drain-covering. 

“I wouldn’t,” Theo says finally.

“That was a test. Which you failed.” 

“Fuck off.” Theo scowls. His face crumples darkly when he does so, and his eyes go blank. He looks as scary as he looks dull-witted, then. “Or else-”

“Not much you can do without this,” Sandro says. He holds up Theo’s phone and shakes it like one would a trophy; the cracked, black screen reflects in broken shards of lamplight on the stone flooring.

“Give that back.”

Sandro raises his brows, blasé. “Alternatively, I can message him and tell him you’re in grave danger. Maybe even demand a ransom. It’ll do the trick all the same.”

It’s disgusting, and he’s aware. Well aware. He draws another cigarette, slots it between his lips and lights it, too.

Seagulls careen past overhead, cawing down at the trees and the arcade and the vast, cold floor. The salty sea air is making Theo’s hair curl. 

“Listen. I’m just following orders. I don’t want Giroud on my ass for this.”

“Since when do you care about Giroud? I may be an idiot, but not this much of one, Sandro.”

Theo looks out at the sky through the archways, searches the face of the moon with his eyes. And Sandro shrugs one more time, lets his cigarette fizzle out with the conversation before he speaks again.

“So… Do we have a deal?”

“No,” Theo grits out. “No, we don’t.”

“Ah, cocco. Whatever to do with you,” Sandro tuts. 

“Simple. Let me alone. I’m ‘fucking useless’, anyways.”

Oh, he’s hurt now. Something inside Sandro moves.

“Don’t try to be testy, Theo. It doesn’t suit you. And you know I didn’t mean it when I said that.”

Silence. Somewhere in the square, a small child has begun to cry.

“Now come on, be a good boy,” he says.

Theo chews the inside of his cheek, tastes blood on his tongue. He shakes his head, adamant.

“You know what happened. Please don’t do this to me,” he says.

His voice is very quiet now, and Sandro’s ears strain to hear it.

He scans Theo’s face – though he’s older than him by a little, it doesn’t show, lost somewhere among the slope of his full cheeks and the naive, boyish innocence in his eyes. His eyelashes lower, and he studies the scuffed toes of his shoes.

They’d been a gift from Sandro, for a Christmas three years ago, cold and white and filled with Davide’s kitschy knit sweaters and Mike whistling holiday carols. He still remembers his smile, the way he’d tried to mask his tears behind poorly portrayed indifference – he’d seen through him then, sees through him now. He sighs, a great rush of air that drives a wedge between them.

“Alright. Then we’re getting out of here. And not a word to Giroud.”

“But he-”

“You're right. I don’t care . It’s an ugly world, Theo. He can’t always get what he wants. As far as he knows, we came here and did what had to be done,” Sandro spits.

Theo laughs despite himself. It’s watery and thin, but still there. 

“Is this your one-man rebellion?” 

And Sandro laughs too. “Maybe. But it’s true. You can’t always get what you want. You can’t always get what you want.”

“I’m well aware,” Theo says. He looks Sandro up and down. 

“Come. I’m taking you to dinner and a drink.”

0912. Turin, Italy.

He’s so close to the door. 

He wants to run, but he’s sure it’s bolted shut and he can’t turn and look, not with the way Paul has one arm around his neck and the other pressing a gun into the sloped side of his neck. Across the room, Dušan’s gun is aimed at the very center of his forehead.

Fede is too shaken to speak, sits at the kitchen table on a three-legged stool and looks so pale that Adrien’s sure he might as well die. He grips his own hands ruthlessly.

“You sent us on quite a run, Rabiot.” Dušan’s voice is mocking, high-pitched and nasally and it grates Adrien’s ears. “And you went to Fabio’s first. Clever boy.”

Adrien scowls, but holds his tongue.

His heart thuds hard against his ribs. He knows Paul can feel it.

“So? Did you tell Federico here everything?” Paul is the one who speaks next, words hot and stinging against the side of his face. He tightens his hold.

“N-no.” 

He hates the way his voice shakes, hates the way his tongue trips over the simple word. 

No. No No . 

“Fede?” Dušan snaps. It’s as if he were speaking to a dog.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Federico says. His voice gets lost in the suddenly large kitchen.

“Well,” begins Dušan. “Adrien here was meddling in something he definitely shouldn't have been. And it’s time he learned his lesson.”

Adrien, somewhere within himself, is glad about the fever consuming his better judgment – it makes the whole situation seem less real, somehow like a flip-through storybook rather than real life. It slows time, and allows him to speak.

“They’re traitors, Federico, traitors!” 

The words ring clear, and then everybody suddenly shifts – Federico stands so suddenly from his chair that it clatters to the flooring; Paul tightens his hold around his neck so far that he struggles to breathe. His forearm cuts into his Adam’s apple, and – Paul cocks the gun. 

Adrien can barely swallow the noise that leaves him.

Then, It all happens so fast that Adrien’s sluggish senses can’t keep up – Federico’s suddenly at his senses, switches from personal to clinical and has grabbed his own gun from the kitchen drawer and now points it straight between Dušan’s eyes.

“What are you doing?” Dušan asks calmly. All throughout, he’s stayed motionless, cold and still like a statue.

Paul laughs mirthlessly. His own Glock is still pressing coldly against Adrien’s skin.

“I’ll shoot you both like dogs,” he warns. “Neither of you will live to tell.”

“Not if I do it first!” Fede says. He’s breathing hard, voice weak and crackly. Adrien doesn’t think he’s ever seen him this viscerally terrified.

“You won't,” says Dušan calmly. “Listen to me, listen to what happened.”

The gun shakes in Fede’s hand as he points it at Dušan’s head. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“I swear on my life I will.”

“You’d do that to me? Really?” Dušan drops his voice to a gravelly whisper. 

Federico swallows thickly. He shakes his head, nods, then shakes it again.

“Put the gun down, tesoro. Think, think. Look at me.”

Adrien clenches his jaw, muscles flexing against the cool alloy. 

And, slowly, Federico raises his gaze to Dušan’s. Dušan lowers the gun, and Adrien breathes a little easier despite Paul’s Herculean grip.

Dušan’s eyes are cold, dark and sallow but he pulls his lips into a tight-lipped smile.

“You have to swear not to tell anyone about this, Fede.”

“How could I not?” Federico chokes out. “You–”

“Fede, listen, please.” Dušan walks closer, each step heavy and dull on the kitchen floor. “You can’t. If you don’t take an oath, we’ll do what has to be done. Don’t you want to stay with me?”

Fede takes a breath so deep his lungs burn. He lowers the gun slightly, still holds it pointed at Dušan with bent elbows and shaking hands. 

Adrien’s gut churns. He feels like throwing up.

“Please, sugar. I need you,” Dušan whispers. He takes one more step, and Fede flinches suddenly, whips the gun up to Dušan’s face.

“Stop it! Stop it, stop it–”

“Federico.” Paul’s tone is sharp, his words like a current that zings down Fede’s spine; and Adrien’s, too.

Fede takes another breath. His shoulders drop.

“Dušan…”

0204. Barcelona, Spain.

The parking lot is cold and dark, the asphalt spotted with puddles that reflect the neon signs of a Tamoil and a lousy, yellow-and-pink sex shop. A crude plastic doll grins at them with red-painted lips from red velvet curtains in the darkened display-window, flickering signs advertise DVD sales and sleazy lingerie.

Cars whiz past. More stand poised at the Hyundai dealership across the road, red and blue and black, sleek paint-jobs glittering beneath the flashes of floodlights that pass them by. 

They sit against the West wall of a Mercadona, because Sandro hates sitting with nothing behind his back, Theo’s jacket spread out beneath them on the wet gravel sidewalk.  

The nearby traffic-light paints Theo’s face a vague pink. He devours take-out from a crumpled brown bag with such a ferocity that Sandro’s nearly convinced he hasn’t had a proper meal in years (not that a Cuarto de Libra with lukewarm french fries and watered-down Sprite can be counted as one). 

He sits beside him, watches Theo lick ketchup off of his fingers, mixes bottled fast-food-chain Gazpacho with bottom-shelf vodka into a crude Bloody Mary and already loathes the stomachache to come. 

“How is it?” He asks, mostly out of courtesy than anything, and the way Theo looks up from his burger nearly makes him laugh.

“Good.” He grins, holds it out towards Sandro. “Want some?”

And he really, really doesn’t, but there’s something so earnest about Theo’s gaze and the childish selflessness with which he offers that he leans forward and takes a bite. It’s greasy and it’s gross and the pickle juice runs down his chin; it’s exactly what he’d expected, but he makes himself think it’s worth it.

“You want some?” He asks in return, tips the reddish liquid at the bottom of his to-go cup at him. Theo shakes his head vehemently. 

And Sandro laughs, shrugs, ditches the cocktail in favor of the straight vodka. He lights a cigarette to go alongside it. He looks up at the countless, countless stars.

“Isn’t this so much nicer than what Giroud wanted?” 

“Yeah,” Theo laughs. “Yeah, it is. Thank you.”

Sandro just smiles, exhales in a cold cloud of smoke, flicks his ashes into the puddle at their feet.

“About our previous topic, though… if you happened to change your mind…”

Theo sighs, deep and loud and very, very on edge. The notes of an old Bobby Darin song waft through the air, carried by the wind from a passing, lonesome car. Traffic is scarce at this hour. 

“No,” he snaps. “I haven’t. And I won’t. And if this” – he gestures around vaguely – “is your ploy to convince me, then I’m really sorry for you.”

Sandro frowns. “Of course not. I wanted to do this. I like seeing you happy.”

Theo snorts. “Psh, yeah, for sure. I already told you what happened, way back before… before Naples. Understand. Please.”

Sandro swallows, then nods his head.

“Okay. Alright.” 

He knows, of course he knows, has heard the story a million times over; the story of how Lucas had told a seventeen-year-old Theo to go and never cause him any more trouble after that night.

And he understands.

Chapter Text

0923. Turin, Italy.

It’s quiet, too quiet. The kitchen tap drips with a steady sound and rhythm. He can hear the electricity buzzing in the walls.

“You can’t kill us.” He forces his voice still, squares his jaw.

“And why would that be?”

Dušan is standing by the table, one hand firmly holding the nape of Fede’s neck, fingers harsh around the skin like some animal. Above him, the clock still ticks on the wall, nearly mocking the sound of the Glock that he rhythmically flicks the safety of on and off, in what almost seems to be a cruel boredom.

“Think about it,” he says. “If you do, you’ll tip everything over as it is. If they find out you did it, Szczęsny will strangle you with his bare hands. If you blame the Rossoneri, then you’ll start an irreversible war that’ll probably see us all dead.”

It’s futile, and he knows it, feels bile rising in his throat as he fights not to throw up on the ugly, dirty linoleum.

“We can fight back, Adrien. We’re not all sissies like you.” Paul hisses against his ear. His words are aimed to hurt, but honestly, Adrien barely even registers them through his desperation to stay alive, to grasp at as many straws as he can and never let go.

“But who will? Look at me. I’m a sissy. Bonucci’s out of country. Fede can’t shoot for shit, and I don’t think Nicolò has ever held a gun in his life.” His voice is trembling now, and it’s embarrassing, because what kind of man is he if he can’t even negotiate on his life? His father must’ve not taught him right.

Dušan hums, a noncommittal half-sound that runs a shiver through him. In that moment, backlit by bathroom light, the round face of the clock just above his head, he looks eerily like a saint.

“Even if you shoot me, Fede won’t be able to live with the guilt. They’ll know, sooner or later, and if you bring me down I’ll be sure to take all of you with me.”

It’s the last push. His words ring clear in the kitchen once again, like a Roman orator but instead of the truth and the law he’s preaching abhorrent lies on a soapbox of dirty kitchen floor. And he really should be ashamed, but they’re right, he is a coward, and a damn elusive one at that, and he’ll wear the title with grueling pride if it means getting out of this alive.

“You slimy fucking rat,” Paul says.

Then, Fede is breaking down in Dušan’s arms and Adrien is being shoved out the front door. His knees hit the porch with loud thumps, the rotting wood snagging the skin of his palms as he reaches out to catch himself.

Paul spits, just barely missing his leg, throws the black envelope down beside him with a thwack . His diamond earring catches the rising sun.

“One more word, Rabiot, and you’re a dead man.”

THE FOLLOWING DOCUMENT IS PROOF OF POSTAL TRANSACTION BETWEEN [UNKNOWN] AND MILAN C. SHIPMENT CO.

PROPERTY OF POSTE ITALIANE S. p. A. 

SENDER: ANONYMOUS, 10125, Piemonte, Turin, Italy

RECIPIENT: MILAN CARGO SHIPMENT CO., Via Milanello, 25, 21040 Carnago VA, Italy

PARCEL TYPE: STANDARD ENVELOPE

€ 0.86

0556. Barcelona, Spain.

It’s still half-dark when he wakes up. His head hurts, and he can’t feel his legs at all, tries to stretch them until they bump into the scrappily upholstered front seat of a blue Chevrolet Lacetti.

And that’s when he remembers; vague snippets of Sandro insisting they rent a car, of sitting beside him in the backseat, his head on his shoulder, of pressing his hand up against the dark, inky black window as if trying to touch the night sky beyond.

They’re in a different parking lot now.

It’s cold; the engine is off, and Sandro’s asleep in the drivers’ seat, upright, as it is. His phone buzzes on the passenger’s side to his right, rhythmic and numb. Beside it, his gun.

Theo reaches across the gear-shift and picks up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Good morning.”

The speakers crackle to life, and Theo’s honestly glad to hear it because the vast lot of concrete is eerily quiet for a morning.

“Davide?”

“Yes, I. Can you come to Madrid-Barajas?”

It’s like a flash of cold, an air-vent that forces him awake and alert at the ready.

“What?”

“We have the person. Now, we gotta get out of here as fast as we can. The Bianconeri are onto us and I’m afraid they’ll try something with the Blaugranas if we stay for long.”

Whatever Davide’s saying is entirely too much for a phone call, and Theo isn’t one for faith but mouths a prayer nonetheless, his breath foggy against the window.

“Well, the flight leaves in seven hours. See you then.”

He clears his throat. “To where?”

“Paris, France.”

He ends the call and looks out the window. To their right, a Brico Dépôt with its ugly red and glassed-in storefront and dark, desolate windows. To their left, a titanic, black-and-white billboard that reads WATCH YOUR WINGS in big, bold letters, straight-cut, sans serif. He lets out another sigh, softer this time. 

Useless.

He reaches out to shake Sandro’s shoulder, hand hovering above it for a minute in hesitation. He ultimately draws back, because he’s finally asleep, the crease of his brow gone, and he’s not sure he has the heart to jolt him awake. He, also finally, looks his age, like a boy younger than him with no cares in the world. The morning is still.

Theo pushes his lips against his brow, runs his fingers through his shaggy black hair and he really can’t help the feeling of pity that rises in him. 

“Hey,” he whispers. “Wake up.”

Sandro stirs, mutters something. Blinks once, twice.

“Theo.” It’s somewhere between a greeting and an acknowledgement, his voice rough like sandpaper. “You’re lucky you touched me so nice. I might’ve hit you had you not.” 

He laughs. His words are slow still, quiet, his mind scrambling to keep up. Theo reaches down, picks up the lukewarm, plastic-bottled water from beneath the seat that Sandro had gotten from the Mercadona the night before.

“Here.”

He takes it, the flimsy plastic crumpling in his grip as he takes a half-sip.

“Basically piss,” he grimaces. He recaps the bottle, throws it down to somewhere beside his feet, lost among the pedals.

Theo shrugs and smiles. It’s kind of fond, honestly. He really can’t do anything to help it.

And Sandro must still be drunk, for he lets Theo brush his hair back away from his face again, even closes his eyes at his touch. It should be unsettling, given that he’s probably about to drive, but Theo tries to look past it and treasure the moment a little.

“We need to go,” he says eventually. The words are stubborn, forced out of him, because he’d really rather stay but it isn’t his place to say, not by far.

“Where?”

“Madrid. Davide called.”

And, for a moment, he thinks Sandro might hit the dashboard, but then he lowers his arms and lets out a long, slow breath. His face is pained at best.

"Of course. Giroud barks, and we go, no? That's how things work here."

Theo makes a face. "It's how it is. Good morning."

Sandro scrubs a hand down his rugged face. "I can't do this."

And then, he's leaning back over the elbow-rest and taking Theo into his arms in a crushing hug.

It's overwhelming and strong and almost oppressively masculine. He smells like thick cigarette smoke and wool, his skin salty beneath Theo’s lips as he touches them to his neck.

But, beneath it all, he almost seems to have given up – and it's terrifying, because he's the last one that's supposed to, because who else will be prickly and ready to say no if not him, because if the least formidable and most stubborn man Theo knows is slowly but surely being bent into shape by the system, then there really is no hope for anyone at all.

“Of course it’s how it is,” Sandro continues. “It’s been this way since my very first second. I saw through it then, I really did, and I was an idiot to stay. But I did, because I… I don’t know. I needed the money, sure, but something else, too.”

He looks up at the gray ceiling of the car, traces his gaze down the slope of it and stares hard at the wintergreen air-freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.

“That’s what they call loyalty, no?”

“They call it whatever's worse for you or best for them. I stayed because our business was clean, as clean as it gets with this sort of stuff. Upfront, no dirty business with others, no infighting, no outward fighting. Nothing.”

“It’s not our fault Turin’s trying to tip our monopoly, Sandro.” Theo draws back a little, but Sandro only lets him go so far, waist twisted coarsely in his seat.

“It is.” He shakes his head, finally lets him go and folds his hands into his lap. He turns around and grips the steering-wheel so tightly his knuckles go a pale yellow. “I wish I knew where they’re getting all this damn money from, how they’ve managed to buy up all our sources. We’ve only got the warehouse stock. After that, nothing more. We need a new supplier, and we need forces in case they declare war–”

“But that’s what we’re working on now. I don’t get it.”

“It’s not enough!” Sandro’s voice is a bit hysterical, beginning to slip higher in his throat. “Giroud is assing around. He’s not doing anything . He’s not taking any risks, he’s playing it so goddamn safe that it hurts, because at this rate by the time we get one ally, the Bianconeri will get six or so.”

Theo keeps quiet.

“We asked for help from Madrid, and they promised us one person, Theo, one person , and you know what Giroud said? He said fine. He said okay, he didn’t fight, didn’t negotiate, didn’t even so much as mop and mow. He just swallowed it, bitter as it is, and moved on.”

“He’s an honest man,” Theo whispers.

“He’s a coward, that’s what he is. And so is everyone. So are you, for not fucking daring to disagree with anything he says or does.”

“If I did, I’d probably be dead,” Theo retorts. “Sandro, he’s got our lives in the palm of his hand.”

“Yeah? And you think that’s fair?”

He pauses. “Every system needs a leader.”

Sandro turns around again, looks him so deep in the eyes that he has to look away.

“A leader. Not a tyrant. Not someone who decides everything and won’t take opinions or arguments or even a dirty look before he shoots the man dead.”

“Giroud isn’t a tyrant, Sandro.” 

He’s going against a wild current, and he can feel it.

“You don’t know him like I do. You didn’t see the look in his eyes when he shot that Nerazzurro boy four years ago. He didn’t have to do that, not by far, but he did it because his pride would’ve been hurt had he let him go. Because then someone would've escaped his grasp, lived to tell the tale of Milanello warehouse, and he would’ve ‘failed at his calling’ or some bullshit like that. He said he did it because he didn’t want him to reveal any secrets, but there were no secrets, Theo, none. The boy, God, he was scared out of his mind. He wouldn’t’ve said a word. And he didn’t even see anything, just happened to be there at the wrong place, at the wrong time, because he was also a pawn in the big game. Martínez‘s pawn, sent there on a suicide mission to occupy us like little children with building blocks until they tried that heist of theirs that swiped half of our supply.”

“Sandro…”

“And it worked. It fucking worked, because Giroud let the infringement ploy irk him and gave in, let his ego take the better of him and was so, so obsessed with that boy that wandered onto our grounds that he let the heist happen in the meanwhile. But he still feels he did nothing wrong, because he killed him, took one of them away, and a human life is worth more than any amount of kilograms. He was so damn proud, my God. He still thinks it’s his merit. But it isn’t, Martínez wanted it that way. On his part, it was a sacrifice. Because he plays dirty, would rather have the drugs than have Alessandro Fontanarosa because he meant nothing to him beyond a chess-piece, an asset he could use. That’s real tyranny, sure, but Giroud is coming close, and the scariest part is that he doesn’t even realize it, isn’t a cold and calculated despot but rather slowly, accidentally slipping into the role. And it cost a life. It could’ve been me, could’ve been you. Could’ve been anyone.”

Theo falls quiet again, and he knows he should say something but all his thoughts tangle together and come out as an endlessly stupid: “I thought Giroud has killed more people.”

Sandro laughs dryly. “He hasn’t. He’s the only one. Of course, I have, Mike has. Out of necessity. Davide has, even though it’s ruined him to his core. Because Giroud would rather have us, have him do it than do it himself. Because he somehow thinks it’s an honor if he’s the one to blow your brains out, both to you and to himself.”

He sighs, reaches down for the piss-warm water and takes another swig. “I fucking hate all of you. And it hurts, because at the same time, I think I can’t stop caring.”

Theo blinks at him, looks down at his shoes against the gray, worn carpet flooring.

“Then why are you still here?” 

The question is stupid, and tentative even more so.

“I don’t know,” Sandro says then, and the raw honesty of his voice cuts into him. “What did you say? Once you’re on the train, you’re on it ‘til it stops?” 

“There’s always an emergency brake.”

“Are you telling me to be a traitor, like the rest of them?”

“No. I’m scared you’ll become one, though.”

Sandro laughs bitterly. “It’s not hard. Think of the two Bianconeri Giroud managed to sway. They’ve been sending information to us, and you know why? Because one is a spineless snake and the other is desperate for money to keep a roof above his lover’s head and food on his damn dinner table. They have reasons, feelings, needs, desires. They’re like us, Theo, they’re human. Just like I am, like you are, like even Giroud is deep down, like Calabria is beneath all the layers of pain and horror Giroud has caused him. Like Fontanarosa was. This system chews you up, and you’re lucky if it spits out your corpse at all.”

The silence that follows is nothing short of terrifying.

“Sandro,” Theo begins quietly after some time. “Let go.”

And Theo knows he understands that he’s telling him to let go of the past, to not dwell on mistakes that weren’t even his own but he can’t help but begin to cry.

It’s odd, and it’s awful, because Theo knows Sandro hasn’t cried since he was seven and his sister had tried to drown him in the shallow, chambré water of the bathtub, and now he’s crying on demand in a rental-car on the edge of Barcelona, aged twenty-three. His jaw trembles as he clenches it tightly, stubbornly, hands never leaving the steering-wheel as a few salty-hot tears dribble down his cheeks and chin and neck.

He gets out, slams the door, then is back inside the car in a matter of seconds, and Theo really doesn’t know what to do because he’s never seen him cry before, has truly never been good with words all his life, a fact that always seems to come back to haunt him.

“Sandro,” he tries, but gets no further before Sandro shakes his head vehemently and wipes his eyes with his sleeve. The gesture is wild and angry and Theo draws back.

“What?” He snaps. “I’m not Lucas. I’m not gonna hit you.”

And fuck, it stings, because that was once , and well-deserved, and he regrets telling him anyway because Sandro has a unique talent for remembering everything you tell him and wielding the particulars at the worst of times. 

He’d slapped him clean across the face, then burst out in tears and hugged him close and Theo hadn’t exactly been sure what to do. In a sense, he was reliving it now, just without the guilt that came with what he’d done.

And, at the very same time, he can’t help but be oddly reassured. Because Sandro is back to the way he always is and change has always scared him anyways, even though his life has never had any roots except for the people he’s been with and himself.

“Yeah, you’re not,” he says. “You’re still here.”

And, if it’s a ruse to guilt him, it works, because he shuts up, starts the engine in a gross, heavy silence and pulls the Chevrolet onto the freeway towards Madrid.

0947. Turin, Italy.

The aftermath is cold and oppressively silent.

Paul leaves soon enough, and then it’s just them, and Dušan considers taking the Glock and putting a bullet through his own head.

“Fede. Angel.”

Federico doesn’t reply, stares ahead and picks at the oilcloth with his fingertips, nails scratching against the wax.

“Fuck.” Dušan takes a swig of the gin, slams the bottle down. It misses the edge of the table and shatters at their feet.

It spills out through the broken shards, seeps beneath Fede’s dirtied sneakers but he still doesn’t move . There’s something in his eyes that tells Dušan that things will never be the same.

He steps behind him, puts his arms around his crushed-in shoulders and his chin on the crown of his head. It’s impossibly gentle.

He feels Fede sigh, shoulders lifting with the motion.

“Fede, Fede. My Fede.” His words, a prayer against the deep brown of his hair.

He knows it’s not enough.

But, sitting there in the kitchen of what’s supposed to be their home, he almost believes that it’s all as good as it will ever get.

1012. Barcelona, Spain.

“No, we aren’t. No, we can’t.”

Sandro sighs for what seems like the thousandth time, rubbing at the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Theo puts his hand to his leg, smooths his palm down to his knee and rests it there. His thigh flexes beneath his touch.

“Davide, please let me talk to Giroud.”

He’s gripping his phone like he wants to snap it, lets his head fall back against the headrest with a thud. Rain beats against the windshield like bullets.

They’re stationary just to the left of a junkyard, caught up in an endless line of traffic, a long, red streak of brake-lights and tail-lights, washed out by the rain. To their left, more billboards heralding fast-food chains and supermarkets and a landscaping company, flapping raggedly in the wind that tears down the highway.

Sandro’s got the hazard flashers on, a monotone click click click that’s probably accidental but at least breaks up the tense, thick quiet that stretches like a web between his words.

“Alright, then tell Giroud that we won’t make it. Jesus Christ, you’re so difficult.”

Theo makes a face.

“Okay. Okay, bye.”

The line breaks apart, and Sandro tosses the phone above his shoulder and somewhere into the backseat. It lands hard, the back snapping off and the battery falling to the floor.

“So?”

Sandro thunks his head against the wheel, the horn blaring out long and loud through the fog-riddled morning.

“So. So ,” he jeers. “So Davide’s telling me to be there in three hours, because that’s when the flight leaves and, evidently, we have to take that one because the pilot is someone Giroud knows and trusts or whatever. Point is, he doesn’t care that it’s literally impossible.”

Theo hums. He knows the man – Giroud keeps a picture of him in his billfold. He’s tall with dark eyes and a neat beard, outfitted in a navy pilots’ uniform. The golden buttons shine even through the technicolor of the photograph. He’d tried to read his signature once, thinks his name begins with an H or an M but Giroud had seen him looking and folded it over with a smile.

“Do you think they’ll leave us here?” The question is naive, but Sandro's used to it, almost hears it coming.

“They’d be idiots to,” Sandro replies. “Seeing as I’m the one who contacted Paris, and I’m the one who knows Gigio and the rest.”

The car jolts forward a few meters before Sandro hits the brakes again.

He reaches into the glove compartment across Theo’s lap, takes out the book he’d gotten at the Barcelona library. He licks his index finger and begins to flip through it. Theo really thinks they should’ve returned it, but, then again, he’s stolen worse things before, so he supposes it doesn’t really matter and he probably shouldn’t say. 

Or, not now. 

Sandro is, in a way, like a minefield that never quite ends, stretching endlessly into the horizon.

“Is Rafa with them?” He asks instead.

Sandro nods. “Yes. But at this rate, it’s futile to even try join them. I can’t even see the road from all the rain. I’d probably have to pull over even if we got going.”

Theo makes a face. “So, you’re giving up?”

“Yes, Theo, yes, I am giving up,” Sandro snaps. “I already told you. I’m finished with this ungrateful lot. I’ve done enough, and got no pity, no pay, no accolade. I’m not going to run myself over to get to that damn airport now.”

And Theo thinks it wise to stay quiet, lulled into it by the patter of the rain.

Chapter Text

I’m many things, but I’m not a liar or a traitor or anything in that vein. 

First and foremost, I am a son.

Then, I am a brother.

After that, I am my own man – and only then am I Bianconeri.

It would be shameful, were the association more of something to invoke pride or chivalry.

But, the truth, aside from being endlessly, stupidly ugly, is that the whole system is sick. Everyone I know is willing to frame the other for a single dime.

I was an idiot, truly, to have fallen victim to what I wound up facing, but I want to make it very clear that I was de facto pushed into such a role by two I will not name, via a break-and-enter, theft, and an ultimate, vain attempt to slit my throat to silence me and cover up the element that would see their hands crossed above their chests and their pictures brought to church for their mothers to pray over.

It is their merit, and not my fault.

They think I gave it over, but, really, if I hadn’t, the two would’ve done it and they would’ve thought I did it just the same.

I have merely finished what they began, gave it the final push, because by now, the only way to bring the two down is alongside the rest, and alongside myself.

– The Stallion, A. T. M. R., ???? Torino, Italia

1728. Madrid, Spain.

It’s the sight of them that makes Theo realize that he and Sandro are still in the same clothes they’d left Milan in, and it’s a little humbling as he takes them in – Giroud, hair impeccably coiffed and beard neatly trimmed; Davide in his football jersey and his crisp linen pants; Rafa in a deep red polo shirt. There's someone else with them, too, a small someone halfway between a boy and a man with mousy brown hair. He's reserved, standing apart from the rest until he spots them – and then he starts waving, a smile shooting across his roundish face as he jumps, a little excited motion that serves to lend him the air of a puppy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sandro narrow his gaze.

"My God," Giroud begins. His voice blooms uncomfortably across the terminal. "You're finally here."

And, somehow, for a moment, though it may just as well be the seed of doubt Sandro had carefully planted in his mind, Theo fails to hear the gladness in his tone.

The next moment, he's ashamed to have thought so, feels the strange urge to go up to Giroud and fold him into a hug. It's sudden and frankly scary, entirely baseless; it's not like he is or has ever been anything near fatherly. Hell, Sandro was more of his father than he might've been, even if he was years his junior and probably the most aloof man he knew.

He settles on a handshake.

"I'm sorry it took so long," he mumbles, and feels the way Sandro looks at him.

Giroud smiles. His teeth are bright-white in the terminal lighting, and his eyes are impossibly blue. 

“It’s alright,” he says stiffly. Over his shoulder, Davide makes a face.

Giroud walks up to the stranger, folds his arm around his shoulders. 

“This is Brahim Díaz,” he says plainly. The silence that follows prompts Sandro to quirk a brow.

“Who?”

“From Madrid.” Davide says in such a way, sort of like he expects it to explain everything. “You know.”

And Sandro laughs, startlingly abrupt. “No, I don’t know. Are you fucking kidding me?”

Theo winces.

“I know my way around stuff,” Brahim mumbles. He raises his chin. It’s the first time he speaks, and his voice is far too young to be standing among them.

“Really?” Sandro prompts.

“Well… If I had to guess, you haven’t had breakfast today. You looked towards the café a total of four times in roughly about a minute. Though, looking at you, you probably want a coffee – straight black with with a ton of sugar. Because your hands shake and your teeth–”

“That’s quite enough,” Sandro says stiffly.

A frown tugs at Theo’s lips. Brahim looks at him, grins, shrugs.

“If you say so.”

They get going then, towards gate H-22, and Theo can tell by the tense line of Giroud’s shoulders that he’s upset.

He can’t help but feel bad.

But Sandro’s talking to him, heatedly discussing the way they now have to take a later plane, unceremoniously shoving Davide aside when he tries to step in. And Theo’s tired, really tired, opts to keep out of the line of fire. He falls into step beside Brahim, shortens his strides and looks down at the speckled airport flooring.

“I’m Theo.” 

Brahim smiles. “I know.”

“Ah, um. Okay,” he says. One of his shoelaces has come undone.

He watches Brahim as he struggles to lug both his duffle bag and his American Tourister suitcase, nearly half his size with little exaggeration.

“You need any help with those?”

“No,” Brahim says.

They stop at a duty free, strangely empty and wide-halled with buzzing fluorescent lights and far too many wet floor signs that they take care to waltz around, fresh-mopped flooring squeaking beneath their shoes.

Sandro buys a Coke, perhaps to prove Brahim wrong, sips at it miserably, grip crushing the bright red can. Giroud buys a box of chocolates. Theo thinks to tease him for it, but then Brahim is beside him and he’s offering him a piece of bright-pink bubblegum, and he takes it before he has time to think.

“Thanks,” he says. He pockets it, wipes the sticky residue on the thigh of his sweatpants.

“ Nada . You’re well?”

“Yeah, I’m well.” He tries not to sound taken aback. 

Then, Sandro steps between them, and Brahim smiles tightly, backs up and slumps down against the terminal wall.

To: D. Vlahović < [email protected] >

CC: F. Chiesa < [email protected] > , D. Luiz da Silva < [email protected] > , Á. di Maria < [email protected] >

From: W. Szczęsny < [email protected] >

Subject:  Emergency Meeting

Please arrive at the warehouse room F at six PM tonight. Do not alarm the others. This is strictly confidential.

W. S.

1812. Turin, Italy.

It’s strange, really strange how they’re in broad daylight, how Federico can see their faces, upfront and unfiltered. Szczęsny looks bluish in the window-light beneath the overcast sky, water-droplets reflected on his skin, his face hard and tight.

And Fede’s scared. He holds Dušan’s hand beneath the table, so hard his knuckles go white, fingers gripping Dušan’s in a way that has to hurt but Dušan doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even look at him.

How could he, he reasons.

To Szczęsny’s right, Danilo sits, less irked but more stoic, his face almost deceptively calm. It’s as unsettling as it is arresting. He looks up to the ceiling, mouths a prayer.

To Szczęsny’s left is Ángel, rubbing his arm, fingers skimming over the inked stars on his skin. It’s quiet, the only sound the AC unit’s mundane hum overhead. It’s deathly cold.

“Kaput,” Szczęsny says. He folds his hands on the table, fiddling with his big, gold ring, twisting it around his finger in an entrancing circle. It glimmers in the muted light.

“What?” Dušan asks, and, although his voice sounds steady, Fede can hear the tremble in it from knowing him so deeply, so intensely, so well.

It makes him sick to his stomach, how he can’t just nullify years and years of hard, grueling love.

“We have ourselves a little problem,” Szczęsny continues then. A thick, heavy silence follows. “Rabiot has betrayed us.”

“I fucking knew it,” Danilo spits. “I fucking knew it.”

He stands up, throwing his chair back with a loud clatter, plastic meeting dirty, oil-stained concrete, walks to the window and leans on the pane.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters. His hot, angry breath fogs up the glass. “I told you not to trust him with the envelope, didn’t I? Now you’ve fucking done it.”

Ángel, too, stands up, with a lot less fanfare. He walks over to Danilo, places his hands on his shoulders.

There’s a loud thump, and Federico flinches, his damp hand slipping in Dušan’s grasp. Danilo has tipped his head forward onto the cool glass of the window.

“ Cálmate, cálmate ,” Ángel says.

“I’m very calm.” 

Ángel shakes his head, exhales in a way best described as vexed before he lets him go. And Danilo steps up to Szczęsny, leaning across the worn oak table. 

“Listen here, Wojciech. Bonucci entrusted you with one single thing – to not fuck this up.”

“I didn’t fuck it up,” Szczęsny says calmly. He rifles about the papers on the desk, sheets sliding crisply against the tabletop. “See here? This paper proves I’m the one to make decisions while Bonucci and Gatti are scrounging for allies worldwide. This is an escalated situation, and highly unconventional, but, seeing that Bonucci gave me fuck all instruction, I’d say I’m doing pretty well.”

He holds up the paper, a loose, two-page document stapled together haphazardly at the corner. On the bottom, halfway covered by their branded J stamp, Szczęsny’s scrawling signature blooms across the page. The disgust with which Danilo surveys it is nearly tangible beneath Fede’s fingertips.

“I swear on my life I’ll up and go to Milan and get that damn envelope back,” Danilo says slowly, a respite after a beat of quiet. 

Szczęsny laughs. “Don’t whore yourself out.”

Danilo makes a face. 

“You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying put here, on your ass, because as long as I’m sitting here in this figurative chair, you’re under my command and I’m responsible for you, your actions and whatever fucking delusions of yours you’re trying to feed. We don’t have the time, nor the means to start any side-missions or investigations.”

“Because?”

“ Because we’re weakened as is, and this is basically a line of defense here. We’re trying to hold out until they get back and we can begin a calculated, well-planned attack against their supply.”

“Where is Rabiot?”

“Gone. But that’s the least of our worries. The damage has been done.”

“No, Wojciech. We have to find him, we have to-”

Szczęsny waves his hand. “Quiet.” 

“No,” Danilo bristles, and Federico tenses up. Dušan’s grip is becoming cold with fear. “You’ll hear what I have to say, as any leader should.”

He clears his throat. Szczęsny raises his brows.

“If we don’t get the envelope back, they’ll have ready access to all of our information, all of our locations here and in Spain and in Paris where Locatelli and the rest are. And, funnily, we can’t even warn Manuel, because do you really think we’re the only ones listening in on their telephone calls and e-mail exchanges? No, of course not. I know that those two Rossoneri are going to the airport, and that they’re gonna be on that plane by this evening, but who knows what they know in turn? Do they know there’ll be a nasty surprise waiting for them when they board that flight? Only time will tell. But if they know, they come prepared, that fails, that’s why we have the Paris base. And we can’t give that away.”

“We won’t need to fear that soon.”

“You’ve watched far too many action films, Wojciech.” Danilo’s voice is gritty and sour.

Szczęsny sighs, filling the room.

“I’m an honest man, and must give it to you when you have a fair point. But you’re still not trying anything as long as my name is signed here at the bottom of this.” He waves the paper around, the sound crisp in the still, sticky air.

Then, Danilo steps forward and snatches the paper from his hand. 

Szczęsny’s expression twitches.

“Danilo,” Ángel warns sharply.

Fede closes his eyes, hears the paper tear slowly, each rip feeling like it’s going through his brain in a morbid sense of pain.

Silence.

He opens his eyes to Danilo holding his hands out in front of him. He spreads his palms, and the shreds of paper flit to the ground like snow. And he’s looking right at him. Not at Szczęsny, but at him , and he feels infinitely guilty somehow, almost as if Danilo could see right through him, almost as if he knew.

He’s never been so close to saying something before in his life.

And Szczęsny’s looking right at Danilo, eyes steely and cold like a sea in a storm, wild, whipping winds and torturous waves.

“Come with me,” he says. His voice is firm, a dog-command of horrible, staggering bravado.

And Danilo stands up proudly, squares his jaw and cocks his head towards the door.

1926. Somewhere between Madrid and Paris.

It’s nightfall already, the flight steady and smooth through the dark sky. The strobe-nav lights blink steadily on the wing, the constant red beside it sinking and rising lazily with altitude change.

In the seats behind them, Rafa and Brahim are asleep. Through the crack between the gray faux-leather and the side of the cabin, Theo can see his face, pressed against the window, serene. His hands are folded in his lap.

In front of them, Davide is busy enough blushing like a school-boy as Giroud slumps onto his shoulder, out cold.

The cabin is peaceful.

“Sandro?” He asks. His voice is hoarse with disuse, and he turns to him.

Sandro is slumped back in his seat, shirt unbuttoned halfway, his eyes closed and his dark lashes resting peacefully on the edge of his cheekbones. Before him, on the tray, a cup of coffee sits, untouched.

“Hmm?”

“You remember your friend?”

Sandro sighs,opens his eyes, cracks his knuckles one-by-one just to have something to do.

“Which friend?”

They both know he’s stalling, painfully aware of the fact; yet it works, because Theo suddenly doesn’t really know how to ask the question without being crude. He swipes his tongue against his lips, rough and dry like sandpaper.

“Daniel?” Sandro asks then, as if Theo knew, and he nods, chances the name and keeps to it. He picks up his orange juice from his own tray and sips at it slowly.

“Who was he?”

Sandro sighs again. Theo’s learned to grow fond of the little sound, often as he does it, the way his breath rises for about one-and-a-half seconds before he lets it go. 

“You remember Maldini?” He asks in turn.

And it’s a well stupid question, because of course he does, it hasn’t been that long and Maldini is not someone he’ll ever forget. 

“Yeah.”

“Daniel was his son.”

And Theo inelegantly spits his juice back into his paper cup.

“Maldini always said I was his favorite son,” he mutters. His cheeks flame at the words, because God , that’s about the most selfish thing he’s said before in his life, but the hurt outweighs the embarrassment, somehow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he had one.”

Sandro laughs restively. “It’s probably true.” 

He stirs at his latté, the little plastic stick scraping against the edges of the cup. A bit of froth spills over the side of it and down onto the tray. 

“He and Daniel jostled a lot. It probably started when he left little Dani at a Vegas casino and didn’t come back for days. Don’t give me that look– that was before his promise. Back then, he was capable of worse. You know, he wanted Daniel to succeed him, eventually, when he was ready to step back and admire the empire he’d created. But Daniel didn’t want it. When words and negotiation didn’t do the job, he figured the Frecciarossa would. When that didn’t…”

“Don’t say it,” Theo warns.

Sandro laughs again, an abrupt burst of sound that’s all too loud for the dark. 

“He needed a way out. And, sometimes, the only one is brutal and drastic but, even so, better than staying behind.”

Theo swallows thickly. “Have you ever… thought about it?”

And Sandro looks right at him and says, “If you hadn’t been in that car this morning, I would’ve slammed it against the railing.”

Beneath the blue night-lights, Theo goes a little pale. His grip on the arm-rest tightens.

He looks at Sandro, and it hits him quite suddenly, the way if it hadn’t been for him, all of him would be gone – his eyes, his lips, the sharp slope of his nose, his hands that now fidget restlessly with the netting on the seat-back in front of him. It isn’t his merit, he knows, but maybe, just maybe being at a certain place at a certain time by pure chance had brought him something good for once.

“Have you?” Sandro asks.

Theo shakes his head. “Now I might.”

And Sandro must find it funny, for he laughs again, and Theo thinks he’s got the most off-putting humor he’s ever known.

“He was a good boy,” Sandro says then. “He was wrong and vain on many, many levels, but he was actually right when he said he was too pure for this business. His one virtue was truth.” He settles back, rolls down his sleeves, deft fingers working at the ivory buttons on the cuff. “It was what killed him, though. He couldn’t pretend to follow his father’s footsteps, no, he told him upfront that he had no wish to continue his charade, to play at God in his man-made paradise of cocaine and heroin and what-have-you. He didn’t want to be a kingpin. He just wanted to be free.”

“We all do,” Theo says quietly.

“On an idealized plane, maybe. We always want what we can’t have. I told you this already. But that’s impossible by now. Think, think – if Giroud let you go tomorrow, you’d have nowhere to go and a bullseye on your back, painted in your own blood.”

Theo makes a face. “But Daniel could’ve just left, no? Got on a plane under a sobriquet and just… I don’t know.”

“Oh, he tried. Why do you think he bought the Barcelona flat? It was his sanctuary, Theo, and I’m damn lucky I ever got to see it alongside him. But we were much the same then as we are now. Maldini had eyes everywhere.”

Theo finishes his juice, crumpling the cup between his fingertips. “I don’t understand,” he says. “I don’t understand how all of this went down and I didn’t even know. Hell, I didn’t even know Maldini had a real son.”

“The price of being stupid,” Sandro says blankly. “To your credit, it was well hidden, though. But Daniel told me everything over a Corona the night before he… Calm, I won’t say it.”

Theo lets out his breath in one great rush. “So he just left Maldini with the business and no heir to give it to?”

Sandro squints.

“Well, yes and no. There were plenty of contenders, but Maldini only trusted two. One, his son. Two, his long-term friend and ally from the East of France.” He pauses. “And now we have Giroud.”

“Is that why you hate–”

Sandro puts a finger gently to his lips.

“Go to sleep, Theo.”

1945. Turin, Italy.

Federico doesn’t think he’s waited so much before in his life. At one point, Dušan goes out, comes back, then goes out again.

The sun begins to set behind the trees, and Ángel is restless, paces the room in distress. Federico’s still too scared to move.

Eventually, Danilo comes back. The rusty alloy door creaks with his arrival.

And he’s fine , he’s alive and in one piece, just a little rattled, and his nose has a matted streak of blood beneath it that connects to his lips. 

But he says nothing, just smiles at Ángel flatly, gathers his coat and leaves.

And something about that gets Fede moving, and he doesn’t have time to think it through, but he knows he has to find Szczęsny now , to explain to him why Danilo’s right, to act on the sudden, rearing urge to defend Adrien even though it’s not his job and not his responsibility and fuck , if he’s not endlessly, endlessly lost between his love for Dušan and his loyalty to the scrappy, rag-tag association he’s proud to call his home.

His head hurts, and his throat feels tight. 

He can’t breathe.

He tells himself to walk faster, walk faster , but then Dušan’s hand is on his mouth, and he knows it’s him because he smells like cologne and nutmeg and he’s pulling him into an empty storage room.

It’s dark, and he can’t see, feels the way Dušan is looking at him. 

“I wasn’t gonna-” he begins, his voice weak. He feels like his knees are about to give out.

Then, as if he could read him even through the thick shroud of the dark, Dušan steps close to him and takes him in his arms.

“I know,” he says. His voice is stilted, strained. 

Federico pushes his face into his neck, inhales and shudders out a wet, shaky breath.

“What have you done?” he whispers. 

He can feel Dušan swallow against him, throat working. He says nothing, just tightens his hold on him.

And it feels suffocating, like the embrace of death, but he may as well be histrionic because he almost, almost craves it.

2039. Somewhere between Madrid and Paris.

It's later, much later, when Sandro has become drowsy from the decaf and refuses to speak, that Theo makes his way to the lavatory.

He finds Brahim there, leaning against the galley with his foot propped up, phone in hand, chewing on a wad of gum. He raises his brows.

“Just stretching my legs,” Brahim explains.

Theo stands next to him. He traces his gaze down the strips of fluorescent lighting that run along the edge of the aisle.

“I don't like Sandro,” Brahim says suddenly. 

Theo coughs. “What?”

Brahim shrugs, takes a packaged Lotus Biscoff from the cart and stuffs it in the pocket of his jeans. “I don't like him.”

“He's nicer than he seems,” Theo defends. He chews the inside of his cheek. “He’s different once you know him.”

“I know. But I still don't like him.” He blows a bubble, mesmerizingly pink, popping in the quiet between them. “I wasn't asleep, you know. Sick bedtime story.” 

The plane shifts down, the fuselage bearing the onslaught of a harsh, tearing wind. The cabin rattles and the neon seatbelt signs flicker on.

Brahim reaches out, steadies himself against the turbulence with one hand on Theo’s shoulder and the other on his chest, palm flat against the fabric of his shirt.

“He’s really sardonic,” Brahim says. 

Though his tone is snide, his face stays pleasant and pretty still, sugar-coated pink lips stretched into an urbane smile. And Theo’s not even exactly sure what that means, but it doesn’t sound nice. He narrows his eyes, licks his own lips absently.

“Well, he likes me,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“I should hope so.”

Brahim keeps his hand pressed against his heart.

"You're nervous. You like him. I won't tell." He makes a childish motion, dragging a fingertip across his lips to show that he really won’t. He holds his pinkie out, wanting Theo to lock it with his into a promise. Theo doesn’t move.

Brahim shrugs. “Listen. I’m not saying this to start us off wrong, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Theo echoes.

“You’re the one to choose your people.”

Brahim finally lets him go and steps back.

He looks at Theo, head tilted, clicks his tongue as he surveys him up and down with such earnestness that he can nearly feel it. And Theo notices beneath the overhead lights that Brahim has got quite long eyelashes, and that the apples of his full cheeks are a healthy, jovial red.

“You’re upset.”

And Theo can’t even argue, because he is , and either he’s a damn bad liar or Brahim really, really knows what he’s doing. Part of him blames himself before giving him any regard.

“S’alright. But I’d choose him again,” he adds. A note of defiance weaves into his voice.

Brahim blinks, then laughs abruptly. “God, I’m sorry. I think I started this wrong. Tell me something about yourself.”

He rocks back onto his heels, then back again, one-by-one, the soles of his sneakers meeting the dirty flooring with muted thumps. And Theo’s taken aback, opens his mouth to speak then closes it again.

“Okay. I’ll start, then,” Brahim says. He digs around in his pocket and fishes out a set of earphones, begins to untangle the wires, slim fingers working at the knots and loops. “My middle name is Abdelkader. I like Hawaiian upside-down cake and I trained at the MI5.”

“You work for MI5?” Theo asks in what he’s ashamed to hear is a kind of atrocious wonder.

Brahim laughs again. “No. They let me go. Bright but not hardy, they said. I only work for Madrid now.”

He falls silent, and Theo lets him the moment of quiet mourning.

“I like strawberry bubblegum, too,” Brahim says softly. “It’s my favorite.”

“And how is Madrid?”

Brahim flinches. “Okay. Alright. They’re well nice, but I don’t really fit in, to be honest.” Then, he adds: “I was born in Málaga, Spain. Ever been?”

“No,” Theo laughs. “I haven’t. But why? You’re really smart.” His stomach twists. He’s not supposed to like him, he thinks, not after what he’d said about Sandro, but there’s something about him, some odd, mismatched charm that makes it impossible.

“Their style is a lot more… physical. I don’t exactly do that. You should come to Málaga one day. I’ll show you around.”

“Ah. You’re a bit small, no?”

“No,” Brahim huffs. “I’m taller than my dad.” 

Theo really doesn’t mean to laugh.

THE FOLLOWING TEXT IS A NEWLY RELEASED TRANSCRIPT OF CONFIDENTIAL VALUE.

THE TRANSCRIPT IS A CONTRACTION OF AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL AND BLACK BOX RECORDINGS. 

PROPERTY OF AÉROPORT DE PARIS-CHARLES-DE-GAULLE & HONEYWELL INTERNATIONAL INC. 

TO ⠀⠀⠀FROM ⠀⠀⠀RECORDED INTELLIGENCE

 

CDG⠀⠀⠀AEZ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ITARROW one eight nine nine

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀mayday mayday

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[clicking noises] [heavy breathing]

AEZ ⠀⠀⠀CDG⠀⠀⠀ITARROW one eight niner niner

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ mayday acknowledged

CDG⠀⠀⠀AEZ ⠀⠀⠀One ????? one eight-

AEZ ⠀⠀⠀CDG⠀⠀ ITARROW one eight niner niner

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀confirm  acknowledge mayday

AEZ⠀⠀⠀ CDG⠀⠀⠀Er ITARROW do you read

CDG⠀⠀⠀AEZ ⠀⠀⠀One eight nine nine mayday

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀descending to flight level one

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀five nil [expletive] cabin

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀pressure  extremely low

AEZ ⠀⠀⠀CDG⠀⠀ ITARROW one eight niner niner

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Roger request assistance from

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀co-pilot to don oxygen mask

CDG⠀⠀   AEZ ⠀⠀⠀Co-pilot not in cockpit

AEZ ⠀⠀⠀CDG⠀⠀⠀ITARROW sorry please repeat

CDG⠀⠀   AEZ ⠀⠀⠀Co-pilot er incapacitated

AEZ ⠀⠀⠀CDG ⠀⠀⠀ ITARROW do you require

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀medical assistance

CDG⠀⠀   AEZ ⠀⠀⠀ Negative [expletive]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[GPWS sounds BANK ANGLE]

AEZ ⠀⠀⠀CDG⠀⠀⠀ ITARROW sorry personnel 

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀incapacitated but don’t

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀require medical correct

CDG⠀⠀   AEZ ⠀⠀ No no medic [expletive]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀God I am sorry

AEZ ⠀⠀⠀CDG⠀⠀ ITARROW request location ASAP

AEZ ⠀⠀⠀CDG ⠀⠀ITARROW do you read

CDG⠀⠀   AEZ⠀ ⠀ God [unidentified noises]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[GPWS sounds PULL UP]

AEZ ⠀⠀⠀CDG⠀⠀ ITARROW coordinates now 

AEZ ⠀⠀⠀CDG⠀⠀ ITARROW do you read

 

END OF TRANSCRIPT. COMMUNICATION LOST.

Chapter Text

THE FOLLOWING TEXT IS A TRANSCRIPT OF A LIVE-AIRED TELEVISION BROADCAST.

THE TRANSCRIPT HAS BEEN DIRECTLY TRANSLATED FROM FRANÇAIS TO ENGLISH.

UNIONTRAD TRANSLATION AGENCY DOES NOT TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY MISTRANSLATIONS, INACCURACIES OR ERRORS. 

PROPERTY OF FRANCE TÉLÉVISIONS & VISTALID.

(news broadcast jingle)

T. Courtois: Over twelve people died and a further forty-five were injured in a horrific air traffic accident this afternoon. ITA Airways Flight 1899 was en route from Madrid to Paris, when the crew began to experience problems deploying the landing gear. Eventually, the cabin pressure decreased in what officials have claimed to be a scarily fast manner, and the left engine got jammed by a piece of unidentified metal, likely coming from the fuselage. Based on evidence, officials believe there may have been a small-scale explosion near the back of the plane. Any suspects or perpetrators are, as of now, unknown. Evacuation was started immediately after the crash-land, and a total of forty-nine passengers were rescued from the wreck, of which two were in critical condition. They are now being treated at the Pitié Salpêtrière hospital. The full list of victims and survivors will be released as soon as confirmed. Our hearts go out to everyone that has lost loved ones in this tragedy.

END OF TRANSCRIPT.

2327. Paris, France.

He can smell burning metal, and he can’t breathe, chokes out a noise akin to a name that gets lost somewhere inside him. 

The hotel room is dark, only illuminated by the television screen.

And he can’t look away – it’s like he’s stiff, body chock-full and frozen with horror, like he wants to switch the channel but he just can’t , can’t lift his finger as he grips the plastic of the remote.

Davide’s asleep beside him, the colors of the news broadcast playing over his serene face. His eyelashes flutter, cast dark shadows onto his cheeks, and Olivier can’t stop himself from reaching out and shaking him awake; and he can feel him breathe beneath his hands, and it’s the biggest burden and the biggest relief all the same.

“Davide,” he says again. 

Behind him, through the window, he’s mocked by the Paris skyline. Davide opens his eyes, soft and bleary and warm, and Olivier’s startled to realize he doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s Hugo,” he settles. His own voice sounds distant and cold, like a stranger’s, flat with no intonation. “He’s dead.”

Davide’s gaze shifts, and he’s wide-awake then, drawn to the grainy screen where a film plays out – the body is twisted, a thick column of smoke funneling from the cockpit and towards the gray crowns of the trees that line the runway. 

“Oh,” he breathes. In the low-light, his Grecian profile quivers beneath the shadows of the room. 

Olivier shakes his head mutely. He doesn’t think he’ll cry, but he just really, really can’t think of anything to say.

“I never-” Davide begins, then bites his lip. 

Olivier understands; they’ve been so close to death, so many times, yet this one feels different, feels like the slow turn of a knife instead of a sudden kick in the ribs, like a creeping current instead of a crashing, cresting wave. It’s almost surreal, in the sense that neither he nor Davide seem capable to fully grasp it, to understand.

“I’m sorry, Sandro,” Davide says then. He says it as if Sandro were there, presses his hand to the wall behind the bed. “God, I’m so glad he’s so stupidly stubborn sometimes–”

And Olivier understands still, stupidly feels in that moment that Sandro might be an angel.

“I know you were fond of him,” Davide whispers. And Olivier nearly laughs at the sheer grandness of the understatement, very nearly laughs in Davide’s pretty face – but he doesn’t, resolves himself with a watery smile.

“Yeah. I was fond of him.”

“He was fond of you, too.” 

There’s little comfort in it, it’s run-of-the-mill and forced through the tightness of Davide’s throat.

Olivier remembers something, then, when he went to church on a Sunday in January when he was nine, and a woman had walked in with a little girl in her arms, scooped up into a colorful shawl with woolen mittens and patent-leather shoes with little bows on the backs. They’d stopped at the altar, a loose photograph of a man in a uniform trembling in the little girl’s grasp. The draft had made her hair flow out behind her.

“Pray for Daddy,” the woman had said, “Pray for Daddy so he can come home.”

And the little girl had clasped her hands, unclasped them, shook her head and said: “No, Mommy, I won’t pray. I don’t get to pick if Daddy comes home. God does.”

Ever since then, he’s always felt the little crack of futility in prayer.

He’d prayed for his own uniformed man, of course, when they were young and Hugo had flown for the RAF, had prayed every night for his safe landing. He’d always been apprehensive about letting him too close to the angels.

Now, he realizes that, at some point, he’d stopped.

He doesn’t know why, can’t help but feel guilt and responsibility weighing heavy on his shoulders – he should've done it more, should've believed it when he did it.

He feels like he’s little again, playing at being Death, trailing behind the priest at closing hour and blowing out the memorial candles one-by-one. He can still smell the thick, viscous smoke, choking and somehow still mesmerizing in the way it furls out, up and away. 

At first, he’d been sad to do it, until Father Deschamps had sternly told him that if he left them burning, they’d burn the wick to a crisp and then the candle-holder to a crisp and then the altar to a crisp and then God would be angry at him for defiling his home, and he’d begun to see it as setting the souls free with the smoke and dying flame.

He’s still chasing it, he thinks, that smoke-thin line connecting life and death like a whisper.

His whole life, he has been.

He’s come close to the end more times than he can count – lying on his bathroom floor, the pinprick of a needle still burning up his arm; in Naples, when they’d gotten into that brutal shootout in a chapel of all places, and he’d had Father Deschamps’ words come back to him in the most primal way, so much so that he’d almost gotten to his knees and surrendered himself and everyone else.

But then, Simon had come along and dragged him to his feet and forced his gun back into his hand, and then he’d been face-to-face with Paolo Maldini who’d been dead for a year and who’d pressed his forehead against his and told him to step up to his throne and fight for it; and he had, had fought and won yet still felt like he’d somehow lost.

He remembers feeling angry, angry at that boy for letting him down, for making an honest mistake that’d nearly cost them their lives. Angry at himself for trusting him to keep watch while he stepped into the chapel to pray.

The very boy who, in an absurd turn of fate, has just saved his same life. He knows forgiveness is the greatest virtue, but he can still feel the walls of the crypt closing in on him. 

2327. Turin, Italy.

The house is half-lit and foreign as Dušan sits on the sofa in the living-room, caught halfway between the kitchen and the bed. Fede sits next to him. He doesn’t speak, and Dušan hates it, because Fede always has something to say. He almost wishes he’d scold him, chide him for forgetting the washing-up or bringing home milk like he’d said he would. He almost wishes he’d slap him across the face.

“Do you want a tea?” He murmurs. His voice is quiet, a shadow of himself. Fede jolts at his sudden words. 

“I’ll make it myself.” His voice is faint, too, lost somewhere between them.

Fede gets up from the worn sofa, stumbles his way to the kitchen. He stands by the counter and stares ahead, out the window above the sink. His own reflection stares back, wavering and pale like a ghost.

“I’m sorry,” Dušan says again. It seems he never says anything else.

“I don’t understand.” Fede fills the iron kettle at the sink, fully, properly. It weighs heavy in his hands. “I don’t understand what happened.”

Dušan clears his throat. “Would you like me to tell you?”

He crosses his legs on the sofa, his shoes scuffing up the cream faux-leather with long, dirty marks. The gas stove clicks. He fiddles with the ring on his finger, on, off, on again, listens to the faint rush of the kettle as the water within slowly creeps up to a roiling boil.

“Please,” Fede says. His voice cracks.

And, Dušan, to his horror, has no idea where to begin. He looks at Fede, tense frame lost in the ill-fitting shirt that drapes and falls off of him. His hands are nervous, skittering across each other. 

He can’t see his face.

And he settles to grasp it from the very beginning, to uproot the seed in one swoop instead of tearing away, one-by-one, at the leaves and branches and rotting, putrid fruit.

“I love you,” he says. “That’s why I did it.”

In the silence between them, the kettle clicks off. Fede clatters through the mugs on the counter, picks up a faded yellow one. It has a chip in it; the red Shell logo has worn off the porcelain side.

“I regret it so much,” Dušan continues. “Actually, I don’t even know why I did it. God.”

Fede tugs open the cupboard, the hinges creaking dolefully, rifles through the cans of soups and whatnot and pulls out a dented box of Lord Nelson tea. Wood clacks against wood as the cupboard swings shut.

“I wanted to get ourselves out of this hell. I wanted you to be happy, to not have to worry about the leaks in the roof and the way the house shifts in the middle of the night. I wanted you to not have to sleep with your gun beneath your pillow and your hands gripping mine, to be safe and… and I say this honestly, for the longest time. And then I got a letter in the mail, from the Rossoneri. I was hesitant to reply, I thought it was a trick by Bonucci to see if I’d betray him, to measure how far I’d go. I kept it beneath my own pillow, in our bed. It got heavy, after a time, and I caved and went to the address and–”

“Fuck,” Fede interrupts. The boiling water misses the cup and splashes onto the table, droplets jumping to his skin. He snatches his hand away.

Dušan leaps to his feet. “Oh my God, Fede–”

“And?” Fede says. “And?”

He steps away from him, opens the kitchen tap. The cold water laves over his reddened skin.

“And, and… And they weren’t joking.” Dušan sits back down tensely. “They made me sign a contract on the spot. And by then, I couldn’t leave, I couldn’t say no. They would’ve killed me.” He swallows, licks over his dry lips with his tongue. “So I signed it. I signed it right at the bottom, damn it, and they told me to retrieve our masterlist of information as soon as I could or they’d shoot me and my lover dead. They saw my ring. A damn rotten bunch, they are.”

“And you did it,” Fede mumbles over the rush of the water. “Why?”

“Two thousand dollars.”

“Ah, Dušan,” Fede says. The water stops, and he steps back, wipes his hand on his shirt. 

“And I did it. But I had to bring Paul into it, because he had the keys to Rabiot’s flat. Turns out, he was also approached by the Rossoneri. Who knows who else was.”

“And he went?”

“Two grand is two grand, Fede.”

“Right,” Fede mumbles. He leaves the tea on the counter to steep, sits back down on the sofa beside Dušan. He keeps a gut-wrenching distance.

“So, that night, Paul and I went in. We thought it would be easy. We nicked the envelope, planted a tracker on his phone and a camera in his kitchen. But his fucking door-knob was sticky with something, and Paul washed it off at the kitchen tap. And he noticed. And then he left, and I don’t know what he did, because we followed the tracker for a while but he’d shoved his phone down the drain in the streets, and it led to nowhere, made Paul break a window in anger. Then, we came here. Lord knows why he did as well. I wanted to tell you then.”

“But you didn’t,” Fede says.

“I tried. I really tried, angel, I–”

“Don’t.” Fede’s voice is strange, thin and stilted. 

Dušan takes his hand in his own, runs his thumb over Fede’s red knuckles. He feels the tendons in his hand shift beneath his touch.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just made everything worse.”

“Yeah,” Fede says hollowly. “You did.”

He feels like a stranger in his own home. He’s always let Dušan do whatever he wants to him, but at some point it seems to have run past his grasp and now he’s stuck, nowhere to run and no more instinct to. He’s beyond grief. 

0012. Paris, France.

It’s been an hour, and he’s still there, and Davide’s still there, sitting beside him on the neat bed with his hands folded in his lap. He doesn’t move.

“Sorry.” Olivier wipes at his nose with the back of his hand. “You’re free to go.”

“It’s okay,” Davide says back. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

It’s idiotic, because of course he doesn’t, but something in Olivier shifts. He lets out a dry laugh.

“Thank you. Really.” 

He reaches out, trails his fingers over Davide’s knuckles. Then, he takes his face in his hands, presses his lips to his forehead, brushes his curls away. When he draws back, Davide’s eyelashes are wet.

He breathes out, shaky and uneven. He nods.

Olivier puts their foreheads together, feels the line between them crack with a splintering sob torn from Davide’s throat. He presses his lips together, swallows thickly. He doesn’t look at Olivier.

And it’s not the same as Hugo – his gaze is colder, even reddened through damp lashes, and his aquiline nose bumps into his own. And God, he’s so, so far gone, so marred by all the ugly things that, for the first time, he begs his mind for answers as to what he’s doing among them. He fights to keep his head level, to not get lost in his sudden, rising realization that Davide’s crying for him, has killed for him, and has subsequently been ruined beyond himself.

“Davide?” He asks, voice cracking beneath the strain.

Davide looks up. His eyes are dark, empty. Olivier thinks he might’ve died somewhere within. And then he prays, raises his gaze to the ceiling and somewhere beyond it.

“You’re a good boy. Please don’t let this world change you.”

0012. Turin, Italy.

“Dušan, please,” Fede begs again.

The highway tears past beneath them, trees and houses a roadside blur as Dušan’s old Montego picks up speed. The wheels skid dangerously on the gravel, and Fede grips at the edge of his seat-cushion, knuckles white with strain.

Dušan doesn’t reply. He clenches the steering-wheel mightily, eyes narrowed and jaw set beneath the red brake-lights of the cars beside them, lined up, good-mannered, on the lanes. 

“Dušan, where are we going?”

“Away,” Dušan says at last. “Far away from here. Fuck, I don’t know.”

Fede blanches beneath the inferior light, a sick feeling seizing his stomach. 

“ Dušan –”

“Federico,” he repeats back. Fede nearly doesn’t recognize his voice.

“Please pull over, Dušan.” He fights to keep the panic down in his own. “We need to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Dušan says. 

They pass an exit, and Fede realizes with a sinking dread that he can’t place their direction, or anything beside them. Everything is a haze.

“You can’t do this to me,” Fede says. His throat feels tight, and his eyes sting. “Dušan. Please. I want to go home.”

“We have no home, Fede!” Dušan raises his voice, sudden and great, tone blighting Fede’s ears. “It’s gone. Destroyed. I wish I could burn it all to ashes, and then burn the ashes again.”

And then Fede’s crying, because Dušan has never, never spoken to him like this, and the sheer vulgarity of it all shocks him to his core; because he’s damn stupid for having gotten into the car in the first place, damn stupid for always listening to him and letting him mold him and toy with him like a crass piece of meat. Hot tears spill past his eyes, blur the headlights that come towards them. And he’s angry, too, infinitely so, leans close to Dušan in an ill-considered flash and grips the steering-wheel, fighting against his grasp.

“Turn around, fuck, turn around–”

The car swerves towards the railing, and the rear-view mirror skims against it with a deafening, grating screech. Dušan’s breath is sour with gin, his eyes bloodshot and wild beneath the lamplight. A horn blares out behind them.

“Jesus, Fede. We’re gonna die.”

Everything seems to slow down.

Then, Fede rights the car, and it’s horrible, his side cramping with the twisted motion, pulls the Montego halfway onto an exit, past the railing and into a grassy, sloped ditch. He pulls the hand-brake, jolting the car to an abrupt, juddering stop. The seat-belt cuts into his waist and arm. 

“Dušan,” he gasps. 

His hands shake uncontrollably as he lets go, unfastens his seat-belt and turns to face him. He grabs his collar, shakes it, grabs his jaw. Dušan stares right through him.

“Listen to me, okay?” His voice is high and frantic. “Listen to me, Dušan. Look at me. I love you, okay? Fuck, after all of this, I still do. Come back to me, please, take me home and let’s forget about this. Remember? Trust hard and love harder?”

“Fede,” Dušan says. “Let me sleep.”

And then he’s out cold, hands still tight around the wheel, and Fede can do nothing but begin to cry again.

 

The apparition of these faces in the crowd:

Petals on a wet, black bough.

 

- Ezra Pound

 

Chapter Text

1100. Ibis Hotel, Paris, France.

The morning is bright.

Sunlight streams in through the blinds in ribbons, cutting across Theo’s face. The bed is cold, the sheets beside him ruffled. He sits up.

“Sandro?” he calls. His voice is rough, scratched by sleep.

It’s late, too late, the sun high and mighty in the sky. The bedside clock reads eleven A. M. 

“Moment,” Sandro calls back. 

Theo stares hard at the painting hung up in the room, traces the specks of yellow and blue and red flung across the canvas. If he squints a little, it starts to resemble a bird. He stares until it runs blurry, until Sandro stands in his line of vision and he’s forced to blink.

“Alright?” Theo mumbles. His voice gets caught on the pillow.

Sandro hums. “Just a stomach ache.”

Theo sits up, looks at him better. His face is pale, hands clammy as they reach out to pull Theo up; he feels the way they shake, folds his own hands over his just a little bit tighter. 

“Giroud wants to take us to lunch,” Sandro says. His voice is low, comforting, as it always is.

“You’re coming?”

“I have to.” He grimaces, wrinkling his nose. 

“You don’t want to.”

“I can’t even look at food right now,” he laughs. The sound is hollow, his eyes tired. 

Theo steps closer, puts his arms around Sandro and his chin on his shoulder. Sandro pats his back dully and pulls away.

“I’m okay,” he says. “Really.”

Theo sighs. “Alright, then.”

1100. Turin, Italy.

“I’ll miss this,” Dusan says softly.

Fede nods, mute. He wants to say something, but it’s like his lips are melted together, refusing to part. His throat is dry from disuse.

He’s empty, all the way, tired and heavy, too wary to sleep or eat. Dusan made him drink a glass of water – it churns in his stomach now, sour. 

And he lets Dusan take his hand, lead him away from their old life and towards the unknown. 

Twelve-thirty A. M. Be ready.

1247. Paris, France.

“To reunion,” Giroud says. “And to life.”

His tone is a bit flat, eyes distant and pale. Theo shifts closer to Sandro.

“To reunion,” Davide repeats. He raises his glass; they all do.

It’s an odd mix: champagne, wine, Davide’s Margarita, Sandro’s Alka-Seltzer dissolved in ginger ale. Brahim’s empty glass. 

It’s uneasy, the way he’s wedged between the two of them, because Sandro’s struggling to keep his drink down and Brahim insists he isn’t hungry. He feels obscenely out of place, cuts into his steak restlessly.

Alessandro has joined them, too, all wide smiles, like a breath of fresh air after the past few days.

“Thank you,” Giroud continues. “I know this isn’t something either of you want to be living. But we’re on the right track. Paris are surefire. They’re enough to face the Bianconeri and the Blaugranas at once, and Madrid is under way. We hope to reach an agreement with them soon.”

Theo swears he can see Brahim wince. He shifts in his seat again.

“But don’t give up,” Davide says quickly. “We still need to keep alert. For all we know, the Bianconeri could be anywhere.”

“Right,” Theo says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Brahim nick a piece of tomato from the garnish on the side of his plate. A drop of the juice runs down his knuckles, dripping onto the table. He clears his throat.

On his other side, Sandro is fiddling with his phone beneath the damask tablecloth.

“Are you okay?” He whispers. 

He glances around the table, and Giroud, at Davide, at Rafael, at Alessandro, a sickeningly familial picture. 

“No,” Sandro says flatly. “I’ll be right back. Excuse me.”

He stands from the table, makes his way inside the restaurant. Theo wipes his mouth on his napkin and stands up, too.

“Excuse me,” he repeats.

The bathroom door creaks as he makes his way inside, the tiles echoing the sound back in an endless pivot. 

“Sandro?”

“I’m fine,” he says. The thick wood of the door muffles his words, but, even so, he can hear the sharpness of them. 

“Do you need–”

“No.”

“Okay,” Theo whispers. “Okay.” He lingers by the door, wary to leave.

Then, it opens again, and it’s Brahim, backlit by the sun. He shoves the door closed behind him, standing square in front of Theo.

“Listen. I know you have no reason to trust me, and I understand. But I need to tell you this,” he says quickly. He’s out of breath, leaning onto the door-frame with his forearm, his other hand running through his hair. “I couldn’t eat because I’m worried sick, Theo.”

His name, somehow, sounds infinitely personal rolling off of Brahim’s tongue. And he feels on guard, jumpy and wild and suddenly he thinks Brahim may as well just shoot him dead, darts his eyes around the small, walled-in space. 

“What?” He stammers dumbly, hating the way his tongue trips over the simple word.

“I wanted to warn you,” he says. “We’re not a crime ring. They play ugly, they’re half underground vigilante system, half sewer rats who’ll do whatever to get their hands on dirty money. I can’t say much more, but I swear it.”

Theo falters. 

“I really can’t say more,” Brahim continues. “But you better watch your backs or they’ll rob you blind, or worse, stab you in the back quicker than you might realize.”

“I– why did you tell me? You should’ve told Giroud–”

“ No ,” Brahim hisses. He grabs his arm in a bruising grip. “No. I can’t. Because then, he’ll stop the negotiation immediately and they’ll know I opened my mouth.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Brahim makes a face and releases his hand. “The thing is, you don’t. I can’t prove it.”

“I barely know you,” Theo says numbly. For a moment, he thinks Brahim might cry, but then he swallows and shakes his head and gives him a sad sort of half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Well, I guess you could get to know me better.”

Theo narrows his eyes. “I guess.”

And Brahim sits down, right on the soapy, grimy floor. Theo winces at the way his suit crumples up.

“I’ll tell you something,” he says. “I’ve never told anyone this.” 

He wrings his hands uneasily. Theo raises his brows and says nothing.

“They gave me a gun once,” Brahim mumbles. “During a shootout with the CNI. I fired twice. One into the leg of a table, and another into the leg of a junior officer. After that, I threw up twice and swore not to touch another weapon in my life.”

Theo shakes himself and remembers Lucas, and suddenly he feels a dull, ill-suited resentment.

“Do you trust me now?” Brahim asks quietly. His whispers echo off the tiles.

“No,” Theo says, clinical. “But I do feel sorry.”

Brahim laughs a bit hysterically. “You’re very blunt,” he says. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

Theo shrugs.

“Never mind that, don’t answer that. I just…” he sighs dimly. “You know that about me, now. If anything, you can use it against me if I mislead you–”

“I won’t do that.” Theo frowns. “It’s not like me to do that. I might not know you, but you don’t know me much, either, no? Why would I do that?”

“I’m just trying to get you to see the big picture,” Brahim mutters.

“What ‘ big picture ’?”

“You need to look past the immediate now and see how Madrid’s meddling could corrode your business in the future,” he rushes out, all in one breath. “I really can’t tell you more, I–”

Theo blinks at him. “What?”

Brahim sighs again, and Theo feels infinitely stupid within the sound, feels like the time he first met Sandro and he’d immediately told him he was an idiot.

“You ever seen a Persian carpet?”

Theo furrows his brows and nods slowly.

“Well, imagine you’re a bug. And you’re crawling across one. Now, think of your operation as the rug. You’re on a yellow patch now, where everything seems sunny and the path to victory is clear. But there’s red beyond that, or white, or what-have-you, and you need to expect it and come prepared. But you don’t know when it’s coming until it’s suddenly beneath you. Because…” He gestures vaguely, fingers dancing through the thick air.

“I’m not this much of an idiot,” Theo mutters. 

Brahim sighs, lowers his hands. “Sorry. But you get it, no?”

“No, I don’t,” Theo says. His voice drips with sarcasm. He steps back another, leans against the cold, tiled wall.

Another deflated sigh. The skid of sneakers on tiling. Brahim knocks the toes of his shoes together.

“Let’s not fight,” Brahim says. “I don’t want to fight with you. Or Sandro, for that matter.”

Just then, Sandro comes out from the stall, wipes the back of his hand against his mouth and sneers: “I think you’re full of shit.”

Brahim huffs, a little sound that’s rather unserious, crosses his arms across his chest. He stands, tips his chin up. Sandro steps closer, stares down at him over the bridge of his nose, and smiles.

“Sandro,” Theo tries. It comes out more like a plea than an order, and he winces.

Sandro shrugs, steps away from Brahim and puts a limp hand on Theo’s shoulder. “Tell the dwarf to shut it.”

Brahim throws his head back and laughs. It’s a little bitter, and Theo finds a frown on his face that he’s quick to wipe off. Sandro looks at him, raises his brows.

“Don’t,” he says weakly. 

Sandro snickers.

“I’m leaving,” he announces. “Tell Giroud I say sorry, Theo. I’ll be at the hotel.”

“But–” Theo snaps his mouth shut, spares a sideways glance at Brahim. “Never mind. I’ll tell him. Get well, yeah?”

Sandro nods.

They walk to the parking-lot, Theo trailing behind Sandro, too far to touch him. Brahim follows from some distance.

“Take care,” Theo says. He holds the door of the car as Sandro gets inside, running a touch over the sleek paint-job. “Are you sure you can drive?”

Sandro nods, buckles his seat-belt with a snap. The engine comes alive with a rumble.

“Stay back,” he says. “See you, Theo.”

Theo steps back as Sandro pulls the car out of the parking space and out the wrought-iron gates. He gives a little wave.

The gravel crumbles beneath his shoes as he turns back, walks back towards Brahim and the door.

“I’m just saying,” Brahim says before Theo can side-step him and go inside. He’s leaning against the wall, bright pink flowers cascading down behind him. It suits him, somehow. Theo reaches out, plucks a blossom from beside his shoulder, thumbs across the petals. “I’m just saying, please consider what I said. Maybe you could somehow slowly convince Giroud to not follow through with the deal, or…”

Theo reaches out, tucks the flower behind Brahim’s ear. He falls quiet, blinks at him owlishly. 

“It’s a nice colour.” He shrugs.

“Um, I–”

Theo cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “You really think I have any say in the way things go around here?”

Brahim shakes his head. “Hell, it can be Sandro. I spent years at Madrid, they never listened to me, but that doesn’t mean I chose to lay low and put my head down and bark when they told me to. Trying is something they can never take from you.” His eyes flash, and Theo steps back before he realizes it’s ridiculous to. 

He reaches up, takes the flower in his hand. For a moment, Theo thinks he might crush it between his fingers, but then, he bends down and places it gently on the pavement, face-down.

“Ant-house,” he clarifies. 

“Sandro’s not exactly favored here, either,” Theo says. “He and Rafa and I came to Barcelona by a blasted cargo ship. I haven’t slept on a proper bed in days, haven’t eaten a proper meal in about a week. It’s the way things are. You sign up for it, you live through it.”

Brahim goes quiet. He studies his sneakers in the dirt, toes a line into the soft, powdery ground.

“I’m not trying to feel sorry for myself,” he says after some time.

Theo snickers. “Yeah. You’re doing a great job.”

Brahim’s face falls. “You’re very impolite, as well. Didn’t your mum teach you any better?” 

And Theo wants to cut back, to tell him no, my mum’s not been by my side since the cradle, but something about Brahim’s eyes makes him bite his tongue. They’re kind of sad, in a way, and definitely hurt.

He shakes his head. “No, don’t– never mind.”

He’s the one who holds out his pinkie this time, and Brahim hesitates, wraps his own around it with a watery smile. His hand is warm.

1247. Turin, Italy.

“Wojciech.” 

Danilo’s voice is forcibly patient, tense and jumpy. He stares hard at the plane of his back, the way it ripples with each staggering breath beneath the sheer cover of his black shirt, heaving and falling.

“What?”

“We’ve got mail.”

He walks over to the desk, circles it. He slams a paper down before him.

“Tax return?”

“You twat,” he sighs. “No.”

“Well then?”

“Just the resignation letter of Dušan Vlahović.”

“You’re joking,” Szczęsny says. He finally, finally looks up at him.

“Fully like me to joke about this,” Danilo snaps back. “Look at it yourself.”

Szczęsny takes the paper, flips it over in his hands. “Fuck’s sake.” 

"Are we meant to shoot them now? Is this the point where we do that?" 

Szczęsny huffs out something akin to a laugh. "God."

“You can break my nose again if you like,” Danilo shrugs. 

Szczęsny stands up. He holds his arm out, cocks his head towards the door. Danilo takes his arm with some hesitation. 

“Come,” he says. “Let’s take a walk.”

The air outside is cold and crisp, a soft mist falling from the well-combed gray clouds and settling in diamonds atop the dead yellow grass. 

“We’re tipping,” Szczęsny says flatly. “There’s a list and we’re going to sink.”

Danilo presses his lips together into a grim-set, wavery line. 

“You’re strangely calm about this.”

The taller sighs, a great gust of air that smells of whiskey and the stinging freshness of mouthwash.

“I can’t do anything else except wait, now. If and when Bonucci comes back, I’m basically as good as dead.”

“Because?”

“Because, you git, I let Rabiot go, and he took our secrets with him. And now I’ve let Vlahović go and he’s taken Chiesa, because fucking hell, they’re practically joined at the hip. He’ll execute me via Locatelli because by then, I won’t even be worthy for him to look at me. What a way.”

“Will you be next to run?” Danilo asks.

They stop beneath a bare tree, 

“No.” Szczęsny sighs again. “I’ll stand my ground.”

“Fatalist,” Danilo mutters, but it isn’t entirely resentful. “I’ll stand with you.”

Szczęsny falls silent, looks down at him with narrowed eyes. He opens his mouth but says nothing. Instead, he reaches out to gingerly touch the bridge of Danilo’s nose, pale fingers stark against his skin. Danilo flinches, takes a hold of his wrist and lifts it away.

Szczęsny steps back then and sits down on the damp grass, the brittle blades crumpling beneath him with small ruffles of noise. 

“Sit,” he says.

Danilo shakes his head but sits anyway. He draws his legs beneath him, sits back on his heels and folds his hands in his lap. A swallow flits past above them, lost in the season, lost in the world.

“We’ve lost,” Szczęsny says after some quiet. It’s uncharacteristically peaceful. 

“Don’t,” Danilo says. “Any good captain goes down with his ship.”

“I’m not the captain,” Szczęsny says back. 

Danilo closes his eyes, opens them again. “Well. And I’m not the secretary, nor the speed-bag. Yet here we are.”

If Szczęsny thinks anything, he says nothing.

1405. Ibis Hotel, Paris, France.

The hotel lobby is stuffy, far too warm – not the sticky-hot heat of summer, but rather the stifling, dry kind that makes one drowsy and not quite able to name why.

The pool balls click together with a satisfying sound, the colours shooting out across the green felt of the table.

“This is strange,” Davide remarks, leaning on his cue. He rucks up the sleeves of his pale blue sweat-shirt. 

“What is?” asks Brahim. He’s sitting on the window-sill, one leg pulled up beneath him, the other kicking a steady rhythm against the plywood wall with the heel of his shoe. He’s chewing bubblegum again.

“Not doing anything,” Davide says. “Sitting down and not having anywhere to go. It’s very strange.”

“Two days from now,” Giroud says from across the table. He positions his cue, closes one eye, shoots. The maroon seven skids along the bumper and slips into the pocket with a muted thud . “We’ll meet with Mbappé and the rest of them.”

Davide sits up on the head rail. “And until then?”

“Foot on the ground,” Brahim calls. 

Davide huffs but says nothing. He complies, touches the tip of his sneaker to the hardwood floor. The cue ball misses its target entirely, tumbling across the table and hitting the other side. 

“Until then? We play. I’ll take you to the Seine.”

“Okay,” he says. He smiles weakly at Giroud.

Theo walks to the window, slow, measured. He can feel the cold Parisian air seeping in through the cracks in the wood.

“Can I sit?” he asks.

“‘Course.” Brahim shuffles over on the ledge, and Theo heaves himself up beside him.

Giroud’s shot, too, misses entirely, and the cue ball rolls into the pocket. He fishes it out and places it in Davide’s hand.

“Scratch,” he says. He smiles weakly.

“Unfair,” Davide says. “You’re letting me win.”

Beside Theo, Brahim fiddles with his hands, picking absently at the skin around his fingernails. Theo notes how they’re raw, bitten, dried blood caked beneath them.

The yellow nine finds the bottom of the pocket.

“Is the Seine nice?” Davide asks.

Giroud smiles again, a bit more this time. “Very nice. We went often.”

Davide clears his throat. “Olivier?”

“Hm?”

“It’s your turn,” Davide murmurs.

A faint scratching fills the air as Giroud chalks up his cue stick. He wipes the blue powder on the seat of his slacks. 

He misses again, and Davide sighs.

Brahim crumples a gum wrapper between his fingers, folding it into a tiny crane that he sits on Theo’s knee. Theo grins, takes it gently in his hands, flicks the wing. It smells of plasticy, pink-dyed strawberries.

Giroud steps towards them, hands crossed across his chest. The tattoos on his arm ripple with the motion.

“Theo,” he says.

“Yes?”

“Do you remember Sassuolo?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Of course I do.”

“Do you remember how we won just barely, by the skin of our teeth?”

“Yeah.”

He glances to his side. Brahim looks up curiously. 

“We’ll do it again,” Giroud says.

Theo smiles, a little bitter, imagines what Sandro would say, and holds the bird tighter until it crushes in his palm.

Chapter Text

0032. Ibis Hotel, Paris, France.

The room is empty as the door clicks shut behind him.

The bed is still unmade, the sheets and pillows the same as when they’d left, and he realizes they’d left the TV running on mute – it’s playing some stupid black-and-white film, a woman and a man walking along a promenade with grainy, dream-filled smiles on their faces. The door to the balcony is slightly ajar.

“Sandro?” he calls.

There’s no answer.

The concrete is cold beneath his feet as he steps outside, leaning against the railing. There’s a lone plastic chair pushed to the edge, but otherwise, it’s empty, hollow and rigid. The cold grip of fear settles around his throat.

“Sandro?” he says again. He knows it’s useless, doesn’t even wait, goes back inside and tugs his jacket onto his shoulders. He doesn’t bother to tie his shoes.

His steps are heavy on the red-carpeted floor of the hallway, and the door draws closed behind him with a harsh clap of sound. 

“Theo?” Comes a voice from behind him.

He turns, wide-eyed. Brahim stands there, leaning against the doorframe of his and Rafa’s room.

“Where are you going?”

Theo feels the dread wash over him late.

“Out,” he says.

“I wouldn’t,” says Brahim. He starts walking towards him, slow, measured. “Davide and Giroud are still in the lobby. He’ll shoot you dead before you can leave his line of sight.”

“Damn it.” Theo turns back, takes hold of Brahim’s hands and pulls him into their room.

“It’s Sandro,” he gasps out. “He’s gone.”

It’s only as he says it that he notices Sandro’s beat-up phone on the bed, stark black against the sea of white. 

“What?” 

“Fuck,” Theo says. He drags a hand across his face, rubs at the bridge of his nose. He sits down beside it.

His face feels numb, a prickling that starts at the bridge of his nose, then washes over his whole body like a tidal wave. He buries his face in his hands.

"Theo?" Brahim's voice is soft, and the bed dips beside him, duvet ruffling beneath his weight.

Theo can't bring himself to reply.

His hands shake as he holds them out in front of himself.

“He’s gone,” he repeats, like a prayer, frantic and slurred. “He’s gone, he’s–”

“Theo,” Brahim says. He feels a hand on his shoulder, and he jumps. “When this is all over, we’re going to go to Málaga. I’ll take you to the seaside, and we’re gonna have ice-cream and sit on the boardwalk and we’ll be at peace. Just us two.” His voice is steady, soft but somehow still firm, and Theo can’t quite wrap his head around it but nods anyway. 

And he doesn't even know where Brahim’s getting all of this from, but he's grateful; it lets him feel something, lets a tear slip past his closed eyelids and make a run down his cheek. He can taste the salt in his mouth. He takes a deep breath, until his lungs hurt.

“Theo, I have to say something,” Brahim says. “It’s stupid to say it now, but I should’ve said it days ago, and I didn’t, because… I don’t know. I was scared. I’m a coward, truth is, and…”

He trails off, his hand finding Theo’s leg. He can feel the way it shakes.

“I’ve been making false reports these past few days.”

Silence.

“I was meant to be a spy for Madrid, Theo,” he gets out. “But I swear on my life I didn’t send them a single line that was true about you. Please, please don’t tell them, because they’ll never believe me. But I have logs, I have receipts, I have–”

Theo covers his ears. “Stop,” he says. “Stop. Shut up.” He’s dizzy, and Brahim’s voice is sharp, too loud and cuts right through him.

“I’m sorry,” Brahim sniffs. “It was selfish of me to tell you now. I just–” He trails off, and he’s crying then, and Theo doesn’t know what to do, barely registers the sound. He can’t breathe.

He gasps, shudders, the air is too thick and too much yet not enough at all.

“I need to go outside,” he rushes out. “I need a walk, I–” 

“You can’t,” Brahim manages. He holds the back of his palm against his mouth, sniffles, wipes his nose on his sleeve. He takes off his sweatshirt altogether, fiddles with the collar of his polo. A thin shine of sweat lines his neck. 

But Theo’s already on his feet, makes his way to the balcony again. He stands up on the unstable chair, swings his legs over the edge of the railing. It’s a hefty drop, and he lands on his hands and knees, the dry grass scraping at his skin. He barely feels it before he’s up again, looking around wildly. Cars, cars, cars. Trees. The moon. 

“Theo,” Brahim says desperately. Theo turns to see him sitting on the ledge, looking down. His face is pale in the moonlight.

He freezes for a moment, considers running but forces himself to walk back, left, right, left. Three steps. He holds out his arms, and Brahim closes his eyes and jumps. Theo does his best to steady his waist as he lands, but his hands shake and he lets him go like he’s been burned. 

The night is crisp, still, a biting breeze sweeping through the air. It nips at his skin, until the tip of his nose is cold and red and his fingers are stiff. His sneakers thud thickly on the pavement as he walks down the hill from the hotel, along the desolate road, a few stray leaves crunching beneath his steps. Brahim skips a little to keep up.

“Slow down,” he says, breathless. “Please.”

He seems to have composed himself a bit. Theo does, even though he’s restless, itching to run. He sits down on the damp curb, loose gravel sticking to his palms as he steadies himself. 

“He’s okay,” Brahim says quietly. He crouches down beside him, sits back on his heels. “He’ll be back.”

In a sick coincidence, Theo glances down and sees splintered orange plastic beneath his feet. He picks up one of the shards, brings it up to the street-light and holds his breath. 

Sandro’s lighter. The fluid is spilled out around it in a dark patch.

The sharp edge nicks at his skin, a drop of blood trickling from the pad of his index finger as the plastic stings through it. Absently, he brings it up to his lips to lick at it, tasting the hard, metallic tang on his tongue. He drops the piece, and it skids across the road, swallowed by the dark.

“You don’t even like him,” he says emptily. “What does it matter to you?”

“You like him,” Brahim says. “And I like you.”

It’s simple in his words, and Theo marvels at how human it is. 

Theo chews the inside of his cheek. He reaches out, finds Brahim’s heart beneath the layer of clothes, presses his palm to it.

“Yeah,” he says. “You do.”

Brahim smiles, exhales, shakes his head. “You learn quick, no?”

Theo smiles back, half-hearted. The semi-seriousness of the whole thing touches him.

“I’m just worried,” he says. “Especially because he was sick this morning.”

“Sick?”

“Yeah,” Theo sighs. “He couldn’t keep anything down. Not even water.”

He watches Brahim’s brows furrow beneath the light, shadows sharp and jarring across his pretty face. He licks his lips.

“Why?” Brahim asks.

Theo shrugs. “I don’t know. He had coffee on the plane. Said it tasted funny but drank it anyway because he refuses to sleep. It might’ve been spoiled, or something. I don’t know.” 

Brahim goes a little pale. 

“It’s okay,” he says again, but he sounds less and less convincing by the minute. 

He rests his hand on Theo’s leg, pats it awkwardly and pulls away. 

“You’re cold,” Theo remarks. “You’re cold and it’s late.”

“Yeah,” Brahim says. His voice is quiet.

Theo stares at him, takes a moment before he snaps out of it and reaches for the zip of his red windbreaker.

“Here,” he mutters. He balls the jacket up, throws it against Brahim’s chest with a ruffle, changes his mind and takes it from him again. He unfolds it and drapes it over his shoulders instead.

“Thank you.” Brahim lets a small smile, nervous and jumpy. He fidgets with his fingers. “Aren’t you cold?”

“No,” Theo says.

“Oh,” Brahim breathes dumbly. “Not even a little?”

He holds up his two fingers, the smallest sliver of a gap between them. “This much?”

“No,” Theo says again. It may as well be the light, but Brahim’s face shifts. 

“Well,” Theo says. “Maybe a little.”

Brahim smiles again, teeth bright against the ink of the night. He shifts closer, gently, slowly brings an arm around him, and honestly, it’s very little difference and quite an awkward angle, but Theo feels his cheeks go hot despite it. 

“Better?”

Theo kind of feels like crying again. He shakes his head, presses his lips together. He feels Brahim’s head against his shoulder. 

“A lot,” he whispers. He rests his head on top of Brahim’s. His hair smells like warm vanilla, comforting and familiar yet somehow so new. He suddenly feels quite nervous.

“I’m sorry I was such an idiot back there,” Brahim says, gentle. “I just never know what to say.”

Theo stays quiet. The moon seeps out from behind the grayish clouds, tumbling down onto them with its silverish glow. 

“We should go,” Brahim says softly. “He’s surely back by now.” 

He pulls away and stands up, the sudden cold making Theo shudder against the night. 

“Yeah?” Brahim asks. He cocks his head.

“Yeah.”

0032. Somewhere in Italy.

“Sugar. Look at this.”

The newspaper crumples in Dušan’s hands as he flips through it. He’s hunched over the kitchen table, bare and white-washed, rough grain brushing at his knees as his legs bump up against the underside. The only light filters in vaguely from the street, beneath the thick curtain of the farm-house. 

Fede draws Dušan’s suit jacket tighter around himself. He walks over gingerly, rests his chin on Dušan’s shoulder. 

 

 

LOST.

Two dogs, belonging to mister L. Bonucci, have run away. Both are disobedient mutts. If found, please shoot dead.

 

 

0114. Ibis Hotel, Paris, France.

The room is empty still.

Theo wills himself calm, steels his breathing and clenches his hands, fingers tangling into the hem of his shirt.

He sits on the bed again. The phone glints beneath the lamp-light, the chips in the screen catching it and casting it back against the wall. He picks it up, turns it in his hands. There’s a paper beneath it.

His fingers tremble as he unfolds it.

 

If anyone is reading this, I would like to make it clear that this, as opposed to initial pretense, is not a confession. My words can and must not be used to prove or disprove evidence in any form, instance, or way. I may as well be lying; take it that I am.

I have four regrets.

One: I wish I’d told my grandmother that I loved her before she died. This letter is as well a belated telegram to Lodi, reads ‘Ti voglio bene, nonna’ in a cursive font, loopy and neat and far better than this note.

Two: I wish I never would’ve stolen that comic-book from the Repsol down the road when I was eight. I fear it was the first of many dominoes to fall. This letter is as well two and a half euros, in carefully collected coins from supermarket trolleys and sidewalks and the bottom of my mother’s handbag, dumped onto the green vinyl counter from the sticky fist of a child.

Three: 

Four: I wish I’d have kept my head down and my mouth shut.

His breathing stops in his throat, refusing to budge. He stills for a moment, because he can’t feel anything , and it’s just as terrifying as feeling everything all at once, makes his head spin and his fingertips numb.

“Can I see?” Brahim whispers.

He’s still standing in the middle of the room, shifting from one foot to the other.

“No,” Theo heaves. “No, you can’t.” 

He holds the paper to his chest, crumpling it further, and then he’s on his feet again, frantic, a blur.

“I need to find Giroud.” 

Brahim steps between him and the door, brows furrowed. “No, you need to calm down and think about–”

“No,” Theo says again. “I need to find Giroud.”

Brahim bites at his lip, then nods slowly. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

Davide’s dull and tired when he opens the door, eyes soft with sleep, wearing nothing but a loose shirt that hangs limply from his bent, weak frame. 

“Theo–”

“Where’s Giroud?”

Davide frowns, his pretty eyes narrowing. “I can’t tell you that,” he says. “I can–”

“Where is he? Tell me where he is, Davide,” Theo begs. Through his dismay, it comes out harsh and cold.

“God,” Davide laughs. “You sound like Sandro.”

“Sandro’s gone,” Theo says. 

For a moment, he thinks Davide might as well be sick.

The next, Giroud comes to the door. He looks quite like death.

“Theo,” he says. “What did you say?”

Davide steps back, and then Theo’s face-to-face with him. He smells oppressively of cologne.

“I said Sandro’s gone,” Theo says. The more he repeats it, the less real it feels, the more distance stretches between him and the verity of it all. He closes his eyes. 

“We need to go to Simon,” he hears Giroud say. There’s the tell-tale jingle of keys.

When he opens them again, Giroud is beside him in the hallway, tugging on a gray blazer. Davide follows behind him.

“What are you doing?” Giroud asks him.

Davide swallows. “I’m coming with you.”

He says it like it’s only natural, and Olivier is choking, drowning in the draft of the crypt, the smell of myrrh. 

He shakes his head to clear it, reaches out towards Davide but changes his mind. Davide visibly slumps against the phantom touch.

“No,” Giroud says. “Stay.”

Theo barely sees Davide smile a little before Giroud is taking his arm.

“Go get a proper coat,” he says tensely. “I’ll be downstairs.”

Brahim is still in his room when he returns, and he jumps a little as the door hits the adjacent wall with the force of his entrance. He’s wide-eyed, lips set in a grim line, and it’s frankly scary how serious he’d become.

“I’m going,” Theo says quickly. He grabs Sandro’s phone off the bed, jams it into the pocket of his sweatpants. The note follows.

“Where?”

“Simon.”

“I’ll come,” Brahim says.

“I don’t think you should come,” Theo says. He struggles to, to gather his thoughts enough to explain. “Go see Davide.”

“Okay.” 

He can tell by the lilt of Brahim’s voice that he’s disappointed, but he doesn’t say anything more, just places a hand on the plane of Theo’s chest. He can feel the way his palm trembles through the fabric of his shirt. 

“Take care, okay?”

“Alright. Um.” Theo wrings his hands, wipes his damp palms on his sweatpants. “Just in case…”

He glances around, steps closer to Brahim. His eyes flit across his face, trace the edges of it – the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, his eyelashes that rest on his cheeks in a blink.

Then, Brahim looks up, eyes wide and dark and keyed up and Theo grabs his chin, scrunches his roundish cheeks with his strong fingers. Brahim’s breathing is quick and hot and heavy.

“What are you doing?” he whispers. “You aren’t okay, you need to–”

Theo forces himself to lean in, press his lips quick and sloppy to the corner of Brahim’s before he’s gone.

0114. Turin, Italy.

“You’re an animal,” Danilo says.

Szczęsny laughs, folds up the newspaper and says nothing. Danilo allows him this petty revenge. 

0148. Just outside Paris, France.

Theo had lost count of the turns Giroud’s car had made, lost count of the times he’d had to reach out and touch the window, just to feel the cool glass beneath his palm, just to make sure this was real and not some nightmare he’d soon wake up from.

The warehouse is set up oddly like a court hearing, Simon, Alessandro and Giroud sitting at a run-down table as he stands before them, knees weak.

“I can’t tell you what happened,” he begins. His own voice is foreign, dull and flat. “I’m not smart enough to connect it. But I can tell you all the details.”

The incline Simon gives with his head prompts him to go on.

“He’s been off for a while now. There was a night, I think in Barcelona, when he had- he was awake at night, wearing a coat indoors in the middle of a soupy motel room. And then he made me get a book from the library, and now-”

“What book?” Simon interjects. He has a pen at the ready, no paper but Giroud’s arm, poised to fill out the tiny crevices between his tattoos.

“I don’t know.” Theo frowns. “It had foreign text and many volumes and I- I don’t know.”

There’s silence. Simon looks almost bored, eyebrows raised and lips line-thin as he drags the pen back and forth on Giroud’s arm, ink blooming across the skin.

“Okay. So he’s been going out and talking to someone,” he concludes. “That absolute snake.”

Theo inhales. “I don’t know. Like I said, I’m not smart enough-”

“So what?” Simon sighs. “You can’t go licking up everything Sandro tells you. He calls you an idiot once, and then you think you are one for the rest of your life? If he jumped off a cliff, would you, as well?” 

It’s unexpected, throws Theo off his balance enough to struggle with a reply.

“He’s done so much for me,” he whispers.

“ How much? I was there when he first broke your heart, and you still kept trying, let him do it over and over again. I saw him hit you so hard your nose bled when you missed that shot in Naples. And I know you blame yourself for it, but it isn’t your fault that Raspadori is still alive and breathing even if Sandro made you believe that it is. It was easier for him. I know one shan’t speak ill of the dead, but do you want to know whose fault that really was? That’s right. Sandro’s. No, don’t speak. It's true. After that, Giroud let him off the hook with a warning, told him he could quit meddling and creating danger or fucking go.”

Theo falls silent. It’s harsh, it’s brutal, it makes him question everything he’s ever known.

“I remember December nineteenth, when you showed up at the Milanello, half-frozen because he’d kicked you out in favor of his whore. I remember that same night, when I went out to get a glass of water, you were crying and whining in your sleep like some fucking kicked mutt. Open your eyes, Theo. He wasn’t the good person you might’ve seen him as.”

“He’s still alive !” Theo shouts. His words echo around the room. He can’t, won’t will himself to think about all that Simon has said – it’s too much, too soon, and he feels like he’s drowning again. “We can go find him and save him and–”

Simon laughs, cold. “No need to save a man who’s willingly entered the den of vipers, Theo.”

“He didn’t betray us,” Theo says. I know he didn’t, he wouldn’t–”

“You think you knew him, don’t you?” Simon says. 

“He’s alive, Simon, alive !”

And then it’s silent. Alessandro’s gaze is pitying as he looks him up and down.

“Statistically, not likely,” says Giroud, finally.

And then he can’t breathe and Alessandro’s hand is on him and he’s squeezing his own chest so tightly it hurts, arms around himself in a crushing hug.

It’s unfairly quiet outside.

Chapter Text

0518. Ibis Hotel, Paris, France.

“Quit that.”

Brahim's voice, sharp and tired, is quite unlike him. 

Theo licks his lips. They taste stale and dry, like a cold, sleepless night.

“I’m sorry.”

He stops his pacing, finally, steps into the frigid bathroom, feet bare upon the red-checked tile. He picks up the straight razor and flicks the blade.

The duvet ruffles as Brahim sits up. His right shoulder is bare, shirt slipping off of it, and his collarbone glows wet from the heat of sleep. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Brahim says. “I know it hurts, Theo.”

Theo smears the soap on his skin halfheartedly, rubbing hard at the stubble on his chin, almost like he could smooth it back beneath it without having to cut.

Brahim’s right – it does hurt, a dull ache that tears at him throughout, golden and bright and sickeningly bitter. He stares hard at himself in the mirror.

“I don’t think I feel it anymore.” 

He tenses when he feels a touch around his waist, two small hands warm against his skin. 

“Let yourself.” Brahim says. He tips his forehead against the bare plane of his back. 

Theo puts the razor down. He wipes at his face with a damp towel. The soap stings at his eyes, and they water, his vision blurring red. The towel drops to the floor.

Through the fogged up glass of the mirror, he sees Brahim wipe a stray bit of foam from the corner of his mouth.

“I’m sorry about yesterday.” Theo bites his tongue. He meets Brahim’s gaze in the mirror, just above the curve of his left shoulder, earnest and strange.

“I’m scared,” Brahim admits blankly. “I’m scared this is only to make you feel something. To fill what he does to you.”

Theo swallows. Brahim is warm like the sun. Sandro is so cold that he burns, the cold white light of the moon, a sharp shadow edge. 

“My heart hurts.” Brahim’s voice is quiet. “I don’t know why. It feels like it might stop.”

Theo turns, and Brahim’s hands scramble to stay in place. His fingertips have gone cold. Theo takes his face in his hands.

“You’re something special,” he whispers. The words catch on the warm, humid air. “I don’t know what, yet, but… you see me for who I am. Even when I don’t know, sometimes. You're-”

“Too much?”

Theo swallows. “Just enough.”

“So not like him?”

“No,” Theo says. “No, not like him. He drives me crazy. You keep me from it.”

Brahim lets out a little sigh. 

Then, there’s a knock and they step apart, and Theo feels for the first time just how cold it is.

“Theo,” Davide says when they open the door. His eyes are sullen, tired. He holds a paper out. “Telefaxed to the hotel.”

Theo looks blankly at him. The wallpaper of the hallway matches his eyes.

He takes the paper, folds it once more over, and drops it to the round, glass coffee table.

Davide’s throat works. “Giroud doesn’t know,” he says, and Theo’s heart sinks a little, although he’s convinced he’s utterly numb. “I won’t tell him. Do what you must and please come back.”

He steps back, then. The floor creaks beneath his weight as he closes the door.

 

 

 

 

—— FAX

 

☐ FOR REVIEW ☒ CONFIDENTIAL     ☒ URGENT

 

TO: Mr Olivier Giroud FROM: 

  thru IBIS Hotels

—————————————————————————

FAX: (00 33) 2269-6777   PAGES: 1

—————————————————————————

IMPORTANT: This facsimile transmission contains

confidential information, some or all of which may

be protected by law. Please shred  &  not recycle this

letter when done.

——————————————————————————

This letter is to inform you of a €70 million ransom

fee for S.Tonali, whom we are holding in an undisclosed

location. 0200, Charonne metro. 48°51′18″N 2°23′05″E.

 

 

 

 

“I knew it,” is all he can say. He drops the paper back onto the glass; he wants to learn the whole thing by heart.

Brahim’s pretty pink lips are grim-set and cold.

“You don’t have to care,” Theo says. “You never liked him, anyway.” 

“We’ve been through this,” Brahim replies. “Don’t you remember?”

“I don’t know if I do.”

He watches as Brahim walks over to the window and draws the curtains open. Weak, cold morning light flickers through the sky.

Theo goes to the bed, lies down. The sheets smell faintly of bleach and Brahim.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.” Brahim’s voice is softer now. “Of you. Of this.”

“He was right about Giroud. He’s a coward.”

“I can’t take back what I said.”

“I don’t want to be like him.”

Brahim sighs, defeated. “You’re not.”

“I’m here and I’m not doing anything. Who will do it, then?”

Brahim pulls his lip between his teeth. “Well.”

“Don’t answer,” Theo says. It comes out sharper than it should. “You’ve been here for most three days.”

“Hm,” Brahim says.

“Giroud won’t hear of it. Davide may be hard to kill, but he’s not immortal. Rafael doesn’t know and I don’t know how to tell him.”

Theo presses his palms over his eyes so firmly he sees white. He feels the mattress dip beside him, and Brahim lets out a little noise.

“Are you ever scared of dying?” He asks against the pillow.

“No,” Brahim says, decisive. “I’m going to, in Madrid.”

“How is your heart?” Theo asks then. His vision blurs.

“Big enough for you.”

He can’t see Brahim very well. He’s soft around the edges, and he reaches out until he touches him.

“Only me, right?”

Brahim nods.

“I need to call my brother.”

THE FOLLOWING TEXT IS OF CONFIDENTIAL VALUE.

THE TEXT IS A TRANSCRIPT OF AN INTERPERSONAL PHONE CALL, PLACED AT 5:47:16 AM, PARIS, FRANCE.

PROPERTY OF ORANGE S.A. 

CALLER 1: Lucas .

 

CALLER 2: Hello? Who is this? 

 

CALLER 1: I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

 

CALLER 2: Who is– Theo?

 

CALLER 1: Yes, Lucas.

 

CALLER 2: Theo, are you okay?

 

CALLER 1: He’s been taken, Lucas, I need your help. Please don’t hang up.

 

CALLER 2: No, Theo, I can’t– I’m done with–

 

CALLER 1: Lucas, I think I might die.

 

CALLER 2: Where are you?

 

CALLER 1: Paris. Lucas. Please.

END OF PUBLICLY AVAILABLE PART OF TRANSCRIPT. PRIVATE MATTERS MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE BEEN DISCUSSED

PRIOR TO THE START OR FOLLOWING THE END OF THE MATERIAL.

Theo’s dying.

It’s gradual, the realization, at first a creeping sensation that slivers its way into the back of his throat. 

He’s drowning, he registers finally, the panic a sharp, clawing thing that drags him under.

And then, suddenly, he’s not.

The phone line rings out, dead and cold. He gasps, fighting for breath, and then he’s coughing, retching, and the weight is back in his chest.

Brahim looks down at him.

“Sorry,” Theo says. “I need to contact Mbappé.”

“And then?”

“Then? Then I’m doing exactly what I always hated Sandro a little for.” 

 

 

 

 

A boy not beautiful, nor good, nor clever,

A black cloud full of storms too hot for keeping,

A sword beneath his mother's heart—yet never

Woman bewept her babe as this is weeping.

 

– John Crowe Ransom, Dead Boy.

 

 

 

 

0722. Somewhere in Paris, France.

Kylian Mbappé is a picture, muscles of Winstrol and sapid, sharp cologne, with a gold-and-diamond Rolex and enough of a cynical inclination to choke the air up around him. 

“You must be Giroud’s little pawn,” he says.

Theo scowls a bit. “No,” he says. “I’m my own.”

Gigio is taller than he remembered. Six-four even, broad and bearded, a gun on his hip and the same old shine to his eyes. He hugs Theo hello.

“So you’re here for something else?”

So you both came running to me.

Theo nods. He’s unsure, really, what he’s there for. He feels lost without Sandro.

“We need your help with a ransom,” Brahim speaks up. “They took one of our men.”

His voice is comically small in Mbappés presence.

“Your dog?” Mbappé asks Theo.

“Sorry?”

“Does he bite?”

Theo frowns.

Mbappé steps forward and pulls Brahim’s lips back, baring his teeth and gums.

“Don’t touch him.”

The Frenchman laughs. “The owner’s the tough one, I see.”

“Kylian,” Gigio warns.

Theo takes the silence to speak. “Sandro Tonali. They took him and sent us a ransom note for seventy million euros. Tonight.”

He hands the note to Mbappé, but he doesn’t take it. Gigio does.

“No,” Mbappé says.

Behind him are Marco and Marcos, a pretty-faced Italian with a golden glitter about his eyes and a firm-built Brazilian with a blinding smile. They are nothing alike.

“Why no?”

Marco frowns. “What do you mean ‘no’? We’re human, they’re human. It’s only natural to help.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Mbappé says. He fixes a gaze at Marco over the top of his shades. “Neither of them are human. Giroud, especially not.”

Gigio shakes his head. “Right.” He crumples the note in his palm, and Theo’s hand burns to reach out and take it.

'This facsimile transmission...'

Marco closes his eyes, breathes out, opens them again. They’re intense and cold.

Theo shifts, left foot to right. He can feel Brahim looking at him, but he can’t bear to look back.

“Why should we help Giroud?” Mbappé asks.

“Because, Kylian, we promised. He’s set to negotiate with us this afternoon. Then, we’ll look into the resources we could give.”

“Whole lotta palaver,” Kylian smirks. “I don’t think we should, any.”

Kylian chews gum, too, but instead of sweet, it’s the icy sharpness of mint, of never-ending cool.

“This isn’t about Giroud,” Theo says. “It’s a separate matter. Giroud’s coming with his own business this afternoon.”

“No to both, then.”

“We have to at least listen to him before we make a decision, Kylian,” Marcos says. He speaks for the first time, and it’s quiet, smooth and cold, like slate. 

“I’ve heard enough from him to know it’s not worth listening to anything he says.”

“Kylian, you’re being childish.”

“So what,” Mbappé says, “so what if I am?”

Gigio shakes his head. “Crazy one, you are,” he says. “I understand your… past, but you should know to put such aside when it comes to business.”

Mbappé scowls, eyes flashing daggers in the dusk. “I’d like it if you didn’t use words so liberally, Gianluigi. It’s my business, as far as I know, mine and Giroud’s.” 

“It stopped being your business when you brought all of us into it,” Marco says then.

“Fuck you, Marco.” There, despite the bite, is little venom in the words. Gigio crosses his arms.

“Likewise.”

“I don’t like you telling everyone this, regardless,” Mbappé spits. “They feel sorry for me at best. And you know I hate that.”

“Kylian, you’re being selfish, now,” Marcos says.

“And you’re being a cunt,” Mbappé says back. 

“I’m sorry.” Gigio turns to them. “Kylian can be quite difficult.”

Theo sees the way Kylian’s jaw tenses, but says nothing. In fact, he finds he reminds him of Sandro, quite a bit.

“Well,” he says. “We all can be.”

 

 

 

 

Ces jours d'azur et ce soleil de l'enfance.

 

 

 

 

1418. Somewhere in Paris, France.

Theo can remember when he was six, when his house was dark and loud and Lucas turned it into a game of hide-and-go-seek.

Hours huddled beneath the dresser as he watched Lucas’ bare feet pad around the small room two, three, four times, awed at how well he’d hid, how long it was taking him to be found. He didn’t hear much from there, and saw nothing but dust and an old book of songs.

He isn’t stupid anymore, not always. 

The familiar feeling rises in him again as he sits in the dark storage room, before the shelves of stacked documents and Pine-Sol, choking in the pungent air. The longer he listens, the more Giroud and Mbappé sound like his mother and father, the more their words and voices twist into what he’d strained not to hear – there beneath the dresser, covering his ears and trying to pick out what the notes of music may sound like in his head. 

They never did form a single melody; it was always a different one.

“Ky. I’m really sorry.”

“Four years later you say sorry?”

Giroud falters a bit. “I mean it.”

“You meant everything else you told me too, didn’t you? Meant every last word, hm?” His voice is soaked bitter with derision. “Four years, Olivier. Four. Say, that’s almost more than the time I’ve been legal for, is it not?”

“Kylian–”

“Kylian, that’s quite enough,” Marcos’ voice cuts in.

Now, he’s not alone. Theo can see the whites of Brahim’s eyes through the dark. He wonders if they’ll end up like them, like his Maman and P è re .

“Get out.” Mbappé’s voice rings clear in the hollow room.

Shuffling follows, and then quiet.

“I really don’t think we deserve this,” Giroud says eventually. “I said I was sorry, Kyks. It’s your move now.”

“Well, you can say it again for all I care.”

“I won’t,” Giroud says. “I’m sorry, I won’t.”

Kylian laughs, brazen and clear. “I spent enough time on my knees for you. It’s your move now. ” 

“Kylian, honestly,” Giroud says. He doesn’t quite finish the sentence.

Theo feels a little sick.

“I really don’t want to beg you. But it’s not good, it’s… it’s terrible, Kylian. It really is. We don’t have nearly enough.”

“Of?”

“Anything. Tonali was right. I was perhaps too careful to begin.”

“You got yourself into this.”

“I had no choice. When– when Daniel died, I stepped up. Perhaps somewhere, somewhere within myself, I thought Paolo would come back. Then, that was that.”

He hears Brahim’s breath catch. It’s far too loud, far too large for the room.

“What a touching story.” 

If it weren’t for the utter flatness of his tone, Theo would almost believe him. 

“You knew already,” Giroud says. 

“Time did me the disservice of forgetting.”

“I didn’t say this to make you feel sorry. I know you hate when someone does that for you, and we’re, in that regard, the same.”

Mbappé says nothing.

“The Bianconeri are trying to take over everything we have. They have wits, weapons, money. They have power. They’ve weeded out our informants, and now they’re pressing, pressing. I heard they’re in Paris right now.”

“Are they, now?”

Another terrible quiet.

“You don’t work for them, do you?”

Mbappé laughs dryly. “No. I don’t.”

“Sorry. I– I’m not sure who I can trust anymore.”

“Not me,” Mbappé says.

Giroud sighs again, and Theo can nearly see the way his eyes would flash a tired, husky gray.

“Really, Kyky. Tonali’s gone, too. Theo will follow, it’s only a matter of time. He’ll leave too because he was right. They took him – he may be stupid stubborn but he isn't a traitor and I failed to see that. It’s too late now.”

“Listen, Olivier. Just give up. We aren’t going to help you.”

“I’m more resilient than this.”

“Rich coming from a man who can’t even get it up twice in an hour,” he snarks.

“Ky…”

A bit of shuffling, then.

“Don’t touch me.”

A defeated sigh.

“Sorry.”

“Why not get him to help you? You only need me now that he won’t?”

“Kylian. Kylian, he’s dead.”

Theo thinks of Maldini, but then ultimately someone else. The someone else has no face, no name. Giroud’s voice wraps soft around the memory.

“Give up,” Kylian says.

“This? You?” Giroud asks. “The whole thing?”

“I don’t care. I’m done caring, now.”

1817. Turin, Italy.

Over a game of gin rummy, all goes over easy.

“Ángel is dismissed,” Szczęsny says.

“Where to?” asks Danilo.

 Szczęsny shrugs. “The world? It’s very wide.”

“Not wide enough.”

“For?”

“Bonucci and us.”

“I win.”

0021. Somewhere in Paris, France.

The curb is dark when a car pulls up, and Theo instinctively gets to his feet. 

“We have the location,” Marco says. He’s wearing shades now, too, gold-jeweled hands holding the steering-wheel. His mink coat ruffles against the weak wave of the AC. Marcos sits in the passenger seat while two more men take up the back.

“We’re going?”

“We are,” Marcos says, gesturing to them. “Us, Achraf and Presnel. You and Gigio are going to Charonne.”

“No,” Theo says before he can think it through. “No, I have to–”

“No,” Marco says. “Kylian says no.”

Theo sighs. “And Brahim?”

“With us.”

Something in Theo’s chest thaws.

Brahim’s eyes are a little wide, but he still smiles, drenched in the white-gold glow of the floodlights on Marco’s SUV.

“An adventure,” he says. His voice is a little too chipper to be true.

He leans up on his tip-toes and pushes his lips against Theo’s jaw.

“Once,” he says, “for good luck.”

“And twice?”

He pulls back. “Twice? Twice is for when we meet again.”

Theo really, really doesn’t want when to turn to if in his mind, but if Sandro’s taught him one thing, it’s that it’s safer to fear the future than to trust it.

“Buena suerte,” he says weakly instead, and Brahim’s smile through the glass might be the widest he’s ever seen it.

0128. Charonne, Paris, France.

“He fucking bit me,” Bonucci says. In the low-light, crescent-shaped indents shine in the centre of his chest. The skin around it is an angry, spattered red. 

Gatti shrugs, the gold-lined silhouette of his shoulders skipping up and down. “Ave Maria he wasn’t rabid, then.”

“Funny,” Bonucci scoffs. “You sound more sardonic than my grandmama, Federico.”

“It’s bad enough we’ve come to this, is it not?”

“Quite,” says Bonucci.

Gas hisses through the pipes overhead. 

“Our grasp is slipping.”

Bonucci rubs at his chin. “I can see that.”

“Good,” Gatti says. “Nothing left to do, then.”

“Nothing but?”

“Nothing but wait,” Gatti says. “Locatelli and Kostić won’t let him go.”

A terrible noise rattles through the room, and the control-panel on the wall flickers green and red.

“Fifteen more.”

“They’ll come.”

“How sure?”

“Fairly.” Bonucci nods. His face is minced three ways by the grisly shadows that leap off the walls. “They need him. He’s smart.”

“Do you ever…” Gatti begins, but loses the words to the dark. “Never mind.”

“Do I ever?”

Gatti sighs, hollow and vast. “Well. We didn’t plan to play this dirty, no?”

“We didn’t plan to lose half of our men, either,” Bonucci counters. “It’s our only chance now.”

Another rush.

“Fourteen.”

Thirteen.

Twelve.

Eleven.

Ten.

“I don’t know, do I ever?”

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

“Sometimes, I think.”

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

0200. Charonne, Paris, France.

The string of numbers lead them to a blind spot between the two tracks, among the wires and the hum-buzz of liquid lightning that flows through metal at the speed of light.

Gigio’s hands are firm on his back as they walk, his breath hot against the shell of his ear. 

“Remember,” he says. “You’re alone. You have no weapons. You’re here to negotiate. Then, if you see fit, snap three times and I’ll be there.”

Theo’s mind tips. It sounds like a silly fairy-tale, the way he says it, and it makes his head hurt in the ever-growing draft.

“I know where he is. But if they ask, you don’t. Better to hear it from them.”

 A train tears past, mere metres away, deafening and strong, the wind ripping through his shirt. 

He meets a little girl’s eyes. 

Later, the little girl will tell her mother she’d seen a ghost in the tunnel.

When it blows over, as if touched by magic, a steel door in the wall is ajar.

“Are you alone?” Comes a voice from inside.

Theo stills.

Davide would swear on his mother. Giroud would swear on God. He can’t very well swear on Sandro, now, and Brahim is as pure as the driven snow.

“I am,” he says eventually. His words echo in the hollow tunnel.

“Well then. Step in.”

He can’t see anything at all when he does. The air is choking and thick. To his relief, the door stays open. 

Then, a bare bulb flickers on, and his eyes take a moment to adjust.

There are only two of them, and he’d recognize Bonucci anywhere.

He steels his voice and his face before he speaks. “Tell me where he is.”

Bonucci raises his eyebrows. “Can we be businessmen?”

His voice is grating, and Theo winces a bit.

“Yes,” he says. “We can.”

He pulls out a check from his pocket. It flutters, flimsy in the wind.

“As requested.”

“Thank you,” Bonucci says. He waves his hand and the other man takes the check.

Theo bites his tongue so hard he may as well taste blood.

“You’re very welcome,” he grits out. “You fucking snake.”

“Oh,” Bonucci says, like it’s the first time he’s heard it.

“I suppose we can tell him, then?” Bonucci asks the other.

Theo feels dizzy.

“Let’s.”

Just one move, three snaps of his thumb and forefinger, and Gigio would step through the door.

“Sandro, then, yes?”

He has their lives in his hands and they don’t even know it. It makes him feel a bit sick, like Sandro and Brahim combined.

“He’s in the warehouse by the freeway to Rouen.”

He hesitates, finger poised. They slide against each other, damp with sweat, but produce no sound.

“Thank you,” he says. 

He turns to go. 

It all happens so fast, then; there’s a click, and then he’s being thrown against the wet concrete wall by someone, their shadow tall and mighty above him. His teeth click together and his tongue leaks blood, veritably, this time.

“Good night,” Gigio says. Theo can feel the words resonate in his chest. It’s almost painful.

He falls to his knees, smoothing his palms over the grimy floor beneath Gigio’s feet. Beside them, Bonucci falls dead to the ground.

The bullet casing clinks to the ground beside him. He picks it up. Sandro collects these, he thinks. He should put it away and give it to him. It would make him smile.

“Up.”

His knees are a little weak when he lets Gigio haul him up before they both turn to the figure on the floor.

“Please,” Gatti gasps. In the slanted light, Theo thinks he has quite pretty eyes.

He closes his eyes when Gigio pulls the trigger, and doesn’t look down after. He feels the way Gatti falls to the ground too as deep as his bones. 

The heavy door slams shut behind them, and Gigio bolts it with a terrific, grating sound.

“Let’s hope the line keeps running,” he says.

Theo nods. He feels shaken, a little, but mostly still and completely numb. 

Gigio wipes the sweat from his brow and shakes his head. His black shirt, though barely there, is dappled with blood. The air smells of metal and gold.

“Let’s go, then,” Gigio says. 

Though Theo feels jumpy, they slosh back through the tunnel and slip past the grate and turnstile with no trouble. 

“The moon is out,” Gigio remarks in the parking-lot.

It’s true; Theo can see it, so near yet aeons away, courted relentlessly by the stars.

“It’s nice,” he whispers. The words barely breathe fog into the cold night air.

Headlights cut through the night as the Knight XV rumbles to life, the motor roaring with staggering power. They outshine the moon.

“Get in, then,” Gigio says. 

And so they drive.

Paris is beautiful, Theo thinks. It’s a pity he can’t stay. He sometimes feels like there’s no place left on Earth where he can.

He doesn’t know if he’s mourning Gatti or Sandro, or perhaps the both of them; he does know that it’s stupid, because Gatti is Bonucci and Sandro is Milan, and Bonucci is dead and Milan is immortal. 

“What’s got you?” Gigio asks. “I’ve never seen you so quiet.”

Theo watches the lights pass over the dashboard.

“You were expecting that,” he remarks, “weren’t you?”

“I always expect it,” Gigio says. “You’ll learn.”

Theo doesn’t comment on how Gigio is younger than him. 

“I don’t think you were with Milan,” he begins, “when we had a run-in with the Nerazzurri. They took one of us then, too. He was alright. Sandro will be, too.”

Theo shifts. The seat-belt cuts into the side of his neck. “How did you know where to go? Before Bonucci told me?”

“Mike Maignan. He got a letter from a nameless informant. It contained basically their whole plan, spelled out A to Z like a schoolbook.”

“Maybe Giroud is right,” Theo says. “Maybe God does exist.”

Gigio laughs a little. “Sleep, now,” he says. “You’re beginning to sound neurotic.”

The moon comes out from behind the clouds and cuts across his face.

Chapter Text

0300. Somewhere outside Paris, France.

Brahim’s head knocks against the car window as Marco turns a sharp corner, barely catching the exit at the side of the A13. The cold barrel of his gun digs into his side with the movement of the SUV.

“Any moment now,” Marcos says for what feels like the thousandth time. "Get ready."

Marco runs a red light at the intersection. Brahim bites the inside of his cheek.

Presnel and Achraf sit next to him, talking quietly.

“I have reason to say Sandro was poisoned,” Brahim says. His voice gets a little lost in the din.

Marcos turns suddenly in his seat, the seat-belt jerking him to a stop halfway. “What?”

“I said,” Brahim repeats, “That, by what Theo told me, I have reason to say Sandro was poisoned days ago.”

His words drag a little silence behind themselves.

“Bastards.” Marco grips the wheel tighter, his knuckles going white against the gold of his jewelry. "How?"

“On the plane. They both had drinks.”

“Why would they poison one but not the other?” asks Presnel. His eyes glint in the passing streetlight. 

“Well, they knew who they wanted to take,” Achraf says.

Brahim shakes his head. “It was both of them,” he says.

Marcos raises his brows. “But Theo was fine, no?”

“I’ve given it some thought,” Brahims says. “On a speculative plane, it was caustic potash. It reacts with acid, but not anything else.”

Marco makes a face in the rearview. “They gave them soda lime?”

Brahim doesn’t correct him. “In essence. It partially dissolved in Theo’s orange juice, but lingered in Sandro’s coffee just enough.”

“Lower than I thought,” Marcos hums. 

“We have to get him to a hospital,” Achraf says. “That is, if…” He trails off, unsure. Nobody finishes his sentence.

Brahim rolls the hems of his shorts up, watches the reflections of the passing headlights play across his legs.

 0322. Somewhere outside Paris, France.

The world seems to still as they step out of the Knight, the lot vast and cold. Their shadows snake across the ground in weaving wreaths of black, backlit by the highway lights.

The only person he sees is Brahim, his white shirt stark against the backdrop of the night – suddenly, he’s in front of him, and he’s kissing Theo square on the mouth, and then there’s a sharp pain against his cheek as Brahim slaps him clean across the face.

Theo opens his mouth, numb, closes it again.

“Where?” Gigio asks simply. Brahim nods towards the low warehouse building, sharp and sprawling across the lot.

“Inside. They’re playing a bit of hide-and-seek. It’s like a maze in there.”

“Who?”

“Kostic, one of his men and a few of the Blaugranas. And Zlatan Ibrahimovic.”

The resentment with which he says most of them is thick in his breath. It furls past his lips in white, escaping into the cold night air. His eyes are serious steel.

“You been inside?” asks Gigio.

Brahim nods. “I’m about to go back.”

Theo finally finds his voice, lost somewhere between the fire of his lips and the stinging of his skin.

“Why are you here?” he asks. “You shouldn’t–”

“You think I can’t handle myself?” Brahim says. The tone of his voice makes Theo’s ears burn.

He remembers the first time he’d seen Brahim; i t’s a startling contrast.

“I know you can’t," he says. "Not this, not them.”

He begins to walk towards the warehouse, following Gigio’s footsteps towards the heavy alloy entrance.

Brahim huffs, breaking into a jog to keep up with him. “You don’t even know me, Theo.”

Theo stops short, turns to Brahim against the cream backdrop of the warehouse wall. The door squeals on its hinges as Gigio goes inside.

“Yeah. I don’t. Yet you’re all over me, and won’t let me go.”

He tastes the mistake before he says it, and Brahim’s eyes dull, his brow and jaw tensing. 

“Sure,” he says. He flashes him a sudden, million-dollar game show smile, bright against the dark. “Should I? Let go?”

Theo’s mouth goes dry.

It’s cold, colder than the stars above them.

“I have to go in,” he pushes, shaking off the pressure that washes over him like a thousand ocean waves. The salt settles on his face, rather cruel.

“Well, come.”

“No. I won’t go with you.”

There they are, two sides of a diptych, but the marble is cracking and far too cold. 

“Suit yourself, then. You can stay,” says Brahim. 

“You might think you know me, but you don’t, you don’t know me or Sandro or Giroud or Gigio or any of what this is like, you–”

He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“And you don’t know me,” Brahim snaps. “You think you do, think you can use my joy to heal your sorrow and anger and everything that is wrong with you. As if I had enough for myself. We’re both shadows of Sandro, you see me as a version of him, not for who I am, not for my past and my future, only the present because you’re incapable of thinking a moment past now–”

“Shut up,” Theo says pathetically. “Shut up .”

Brahim swallows. His eyes are oddly bright. “You said I saw who you were, beneath all the ink and scars and fortunes. Why won’t you do the same?”

The fight has ebbed away from his voice. Now, it’s more so bitter, edging on hurt.

“You’re like a lost little boy now that he left you,” he goes on. “And you ran to the first person there.”

“He didn’t leave me,” Theo tries weakly.

Time seems to slow, and his breathing picks up. Brahim meets his eyes. Theo feels like he’s throwing up, and he has to shut his own eyes so tightly he sees white.

“You can’t even look at me, can you? I know you regret everything you said.”

Theo feels sick.

He lurches forward, grabs the front of Brahim’s shirt so hard the joints lining his fingers ache, rushes at him with such a force that he very nearly falls back on the ground. The gravel crunches obscenely beneath his shoes, like the brittle snapping of bones.

“Fuck you,” Theo chokes. His throat is tight, lined with dust. “Fuck you, do you take me for a liar?”

He can’t feel the cold anymore. 

“Theo–”

“I can’t let him go, I want to, but I can’t, I–” he goes on, and it’s so hard to breathe, so hard to think.

He shakes Brahim a little, hearing his teeth knock together in the quiet. His vision blurs.

Then, someone’s hand is grabbing at the back of his neck, pulling him away. He feels his own nails dig into the arm around his waist, barely aware of what he’s doing. His whole face has begun to go numb.

“– hear me? Listen to me, hey–”

Golden light filters his world, and suddenly, he's little again, running through the endless, warm sun.

Next thing, he’s down on the ground, gasping for breath as someone’s knee weighs heavy on the dip of his back. The ground cuts into his face, sharp and jagged, and he can feel a trickle of fluid run down his face. He isn’t sure what it is.

Only as he touches it does he realise he’s crying, only when he brings his fingertips to his lips and feels the sting of salt against them. Then, he hears himself, the wracking, heavy sobs that tear past his throat.

“He’s fucking crazy,” Gigio mutters to nobody in particular. 

A weak protest dies at the tip of his tongue.

Gigio sits him up, then, leans him against the concrete wall. It’s cold, but the shock of it wakes him up, if only just a little.

Brahim is gone.

Theo turns to Gigio and cries, pushes his face into his chest so hard it hurts. He feels his hand on his head, large and unmoving. It’s not quite like Lucas, but it only makes him cry harder.

“Let them do it,” Gigio says. “They’ll get your Sandro for you.”

Gunshots ring out in the night air, one, two, then a third.

Quiet follows.

0311. Somewhere outside Paris, France.

Theo stands still in the cold.

To his left, Brahim is huddled in Marco’s coat on the curb. His knee is bloody, streaks of it running down his leg

To his right, in the distance, Sandro is being led to a car. He’s surrounded, Gigio’s shoulder shielding his face just so, and Theo doesn’t make an effort to see him – he thinks, vaguely, how he may throw up if he did.

The air smells of metal, thick and nauseating.

“I killed him,” is all Brahim says.

Theo can’t even remember the first time he’d killed a man.

Marcos wipes his hands on the seat of his jeans. The blood has dried and doesn’t come off. 

“He had a run-in with Torres,” he explains. “I told him to shoot. He did.”

“Oh,” Theo says.

“He has terrible aim,” Marco says from behind them. Theo startles. “The bullet missed Torres entirely, bounced off the metal door and skimmed his hand. He dropped his gun and I shot him as he fumbled.”

The tactical, hard feel of Marco's words makes Theo’s stomach turn. He closes his eyes, tries to imagine it, then opens them again. Brahim is staring at him, but his eyes are quite empty. 

“It wasn’t you,” Theo tells him. “You hear me? It wasn’t you.”

He shakes his head.

“Thanks for the assist, anyways.” Marco shrugs. He takes Marcos’ arm, leads him away until just Zlatan is left, his shadow arching over them like a saint.

Brahim takes a breath, staccato and thin. “I want to go home.”

“Me too,” Theo says. 

It’s stupid, and it’s childish, because any other day you ask him, he’ll say he has no home – yet, endlessly small beneath the night sky, he longs for nothing more. 

“I don’t want to do this again.”

“Do what?” Theo shifts from one foot to another. 

“I don’t know,” says Brahim. “Be angry. With you.”

“I’m sorry that you were,” Theo says. “I wasn’t, though.”

“Oh.” Brahim rubs at the back of his neck. The skin beneath his nails turns an angry, streaky red. “I’m not sure where to go from here.”

“Home,” Zlatan says blankly. 

“No. I don’t feel really well,” Brahim mumbles. “Theo…”

Theo puts the heel of his palm against his forehead, slick with cold sweat. 

“Press,” he says. 

Albeit weakly, Brahim does. Theo can feel the way he shakes. He lets up the pressure, lets him go.

“I’ll get him something,” Zlatan says. "Don't listen to what he's saying. He's probably running a fever." He walks off, melting into the night.

Theo sits next to Brahim. He doesn’t speak, puts a hand on his leg and waits until Brahim does.

“I regret this so much.”

His voice is a bit stronger, a bit louder, a bit more there. He doesn’t look at Theo, only down at his fingers that move idly across the plane of his thigh.

“You’ll be home soon enough,” Theo says. He wills his bitterness down.

Brahim blinks long and slow. His teeth knock together from the cold, and his lips are going blue. “I regret that, too. I want to go home .”

“Can’t you?” 

Brahim laughs, although it’s halfway to a sob. “I left when my littlest sister was one. Only two of them remember me. They’re not allowed to say. I miss my mother, Theo, and I wish she missed me.”

“Go home to them,” Theo answers without a thought. “Go home.”

Brahim only shakes his head.

“When I was at the MI5, they told me the same. They said ‘Brahim, go home to your mother.’ And you know what I did? I went back to Spain, took the first train to Madrid and joined their ring. I was quite bitter, you see, I wanted to show them I was strong, that I didn’t need to go home to my mother. That I was fine on my own. But I didn’t show them anything, really, in the end. We live in the shadows, and we don’t ever catch the light to shine.”

Theo worries his lip between his teeth. 

It hurts, the way Brahim puts it, and it hits him quite suddenly that despite never having lived such a feeling, he feels it all the same.

“I saw my father years later, when I went back to Málaga on a mission. He was at the market on a Sunday, and he looked right into my eyes. I ran away. Only when I was streets away did I realise I should have stayed.”

Brahim’s words weigh heavy and bitter on Theo’s heart, and he kind of wants to hit him, to knock some sense into that pretty head of his.

He isn’t keen on calling it jealousy, but there isn’t really another word that might fit.

For him, Milan was redemption, a chance at life anew. He’d turned to Maldini as his Messiah, to Sandro as his salvation – and now that Maldini is dead and Sandro is halfway to it, he realises he doesn’t know what to say, do, where to go. 

He wishes he could go home, to a chipper family by the Spanish seaside, far, far away. It doesn’t have to be his own; it can be anyone’s, so long as they have a surplus plate at the dinner table and a warm, wide smile, so long as they look past his tired eyes and his gruesome tattoos and let him rest.

He misses his mother, too. He seems to be doing so often nowadays.

Zlatan comes back with a half-full bottle of something, amber liquid that glints yellow in the moonlight. He comes to his knees beside Brahim, pours a healthy slosh of it over his bloody knee, then presses the bottle to his lips. 

Brahim hisses a little, the muscles in his thigh flex.

“What is it?” asks Theo.

“Brandy,” Zlatan says. He makes Brahim take a swig, wipes at the corner of his mouth with his thumb, lays him down gently on the sidewalk. 

“Better?” he asks. 

Brahim nods a little, the motion ruffling against some stray, dry leaves on the pavement.

“I’ve missed you,” Zlatan says. He pats Theo’s back roughly. “I wondered how you were. I see you’ve still got your spirit.”

Theo smiles urbanely, though it borders on a grimace. “‘Suppose so.”

Zlatan pushes the bottle into his hand, and he drinks almost mechanically, the alcohol rough against his throat. It's been a long time since he's had something like this, something to numb the sharp edges of his thoughts.

“Mike Maignan called,” Zlatan says. “He and Yacine paid a visit to the Bianconeri this afternoon.”

Another drink.

“And?”

“They’re gone, the lot of them. Deserted. Szczęsny was dead cold on the floor. It was a failed suicide pact; the other half shot first and ran.”

Theo winces. He feels like he’s five again, half-asleep in the car while his father and uncle talk, parked outside his parents’ home, voices quiet and negotiating for just one day more , Lucas’ hand in his hair; like he can’t quite grasp the gravity of life.

The sudden quiet is a little oppressive.

“Promise me something before I go, yeah?” Zlatan asks.

Theo nods.

“Don’t drink the whole thing.”

With that, he steps away, and Theo laughs humorlessly into the night. Brahim shifts a little, and Theo tenses up.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Brahim doesn’t answer. His eyes are closed. Theo forces himself not to worry, rubs his fingers across his forearms to have something to do.

0344. Somewhere outside Paris, France.

The stars are sharp above the Île-de-France as he sits on the steel railing lining the road. His own shadow is larger-than-life, spreading across the blacktop. It shivers a little – it must be cold, but he can’t feel anything again. Perhaps it’s the brandy.

“It’s unfair,” he whispers to the dark. 

He missed the final curtain, feels like he’s read a story and someone has cruelly ripped out the very last page. 

He really only has himself to blame.

It’s rather sudden, the way it hits him – it’s over, all over, Sandro is alive, Brahim is maybe a little cold and maybe a little angry but he’s fine , and–

He supposes the end is in his hands, now.

“Theo?”

He jumps a little at the voice. Giroud comes out from the shadows, and he doesn’t even know how and when he got here but he can’t will himself to be scared.

“You know?” he asks weakly. 

“You did good,” says Giroud.

“I did what you told me not to.”

Giroud shakes his head. It’s surely a little fond. “You may be a little headstrong, but your heart is in the right place.”

“I did what Sandro would’ve done.” Theo’s voice dies in his throat halfway. 

He shifts on the railing. Giroud pulls himself up beside him, smoothing his palms over the thighs of his slacks to iron out the wrinkles.

“Your love for him goes deep,” he says.

Theo nods. “I guess so”

Giroud smiles a little again. “I know so.”

“He wouldn’t have done this for me, I don’t think.”

“There isn’t a way to say. Maybe yes, maybe no. But it doesn’t matter.”

Theo wants to retort back, yes, it does too matter, but he bites his tongue.

“I guess not,” he says instead.

“We’ve won,” Giroud says. He sounds dull when he says it, somehow, and Theo fails to feel any form of relief. “Things will go back to how they were.”

“And Brahim?” Theo asks. 

“The little one? He’ll be okay. I’m sure of it.”

Theo sighs wearily. “I don’t want to let him go.”

Giroud sighs, and his face creases a little.

“You have to, sometimes.”

Theo shakes his head, stubborn. “He told me not to tell you, but I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. They’ll kill him in Madrid. Maybe it’s better like this, actually, maybe if he’s dead I’ll be able to let him go. Maybe we should’ve let them kill Sandro, too, maybe I should’ve–”

Giroud, to his surprise, laughs, loud and long in the night.

Theo falls quiet. The crickets in the grass chirr on in a monotone drone.

“I’ve dealt with Brahim. He’ll be okay.”

“And Sandro?”

“Don’t worry,” Giroud says. “You worry enough as is.” 

For the first time, it strikes Theo as genuine, rather than the coarse brushing off of a kid underfoot. He looks up to the sky again.

The stars are still there, and they are the same, silent witnesses of his whole life, insignificant and lost in the folds of time. He’s beginning to get cold.

“Come.” Giroud puts his arm around him. His head knocks gently against his own. “Here’s to tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

He can barely be kept at bay, and he’s up and out of bed by the following day until Zlatan quite literally forces him down, pushes a hand into his chest and stuns him back into the pillows, shoves codeine so far down his throat that he gags around the cold metal of the spoon. He’s unkind, treats Sandro so roughly that Theo steps up and asks if he should take over. Zlatan is more than happy to let him.

“Hi,” he mumbles when he enters the room.

The air is stale, and Sandro’s propped up on a ridiculous amount of pillows, lost among the sea of white. His dark hair spreads like a halo around him.

“Are you… alright?”

“‘Course I am. Don’t go crying about it.”

His tone is raw and hits Theo quite suddenly.

“I saved your life, Sandro.”

Sandro sighs.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He pats the bed beside him, and Theo sits gingerly.

“I don’t think I have anything to say to you,” Theo says.

“How did you know?”

“You don’t deserve to know. You’re alive, and that’s what matters.”

“Theo.”

“I mean it, Sandro. You’re not a king. You’re just playing like you are one and it’s finally come to bite you in the ass.”

“I just wanted the best for us. For you.”

Theo shakes his head.

“I’m sorry. I love you, Theo.”

Theo smiles stiffly and leaves the room.

THE FOLLOWING TEXT IS A TRANSCRIPT OF A LIVE-AIRED RADIO SHOW.

THE TRANSCRIPT HAS BEEN DIRECTLY TRANSLATED FROM ESPAÑOL TO ENGLISH.

CBLINGUA TRANSLATION AGENCY DOES NOT TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY MISTRANSLATIONS, INACCURACIES OR ERRORS. 

PROPERTY OF PRISA & CBLINGUA-JEREZ DE LA FRONTERA.

VOICEOVER: You’re listening to CADENA Dial 91.7 FM

CADENA jingle [6 secs]

HOST: Good morning! The city is waking up, ready for a new, golden day. If you’d like to hear a song, call or text [redacted to retain privacy]. Again, that’s [redacted to retain privacy]. I’m your host, João Félix, and, that said, let’s open today with Maria Maria by, you know it, Santana.

MUSIC [4 mins 21 secs]

HOST: And our first request has landed! A message simply relaying “TKM”, this one’s from Theo to a certain Brahim. Brahim, if you’re listening, this is for you: here’s Ricchi e Poveri with Sarà Perché Ti Amo.

END OF PUBLICLY AVAILABLE PART OF TRANSCRIPT.

He and I get along. 

When I was twenty-five, he saved my life by stumbling into it. Love is ageless, timeless, eternal.